


Afterimage

by mariana_oconnor



Series: Clint Barton Bingo 2020 [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A Bucky for All Seasons, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, But the Avengers still exist, Clint Barton is not an Avenger, Deaf Clint Barton, Ghost Bucky Barnes, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medium Clint Barton, Strange Ex Machina, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: Clint Barton's seen ghosts since he was a kid and they've always been the same: hollow empty things, right up until you draw the circle and light the candle. These days, he uses that talent to earn a living.After a seance goes wrong, he meets a ghost that isn't like the rest, a young man going by the name Bucky Barnes, who died in the Second World War. Confused by how Bucky manages to stay so aware, when other ghosts fade away, Clint goes looking for some answers.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Clint Barton Bingo 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1716733
Comments: 65
Kudos: 534
Collections: Clint Barton Bingo





	Afterimage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Clint Barton Bingo square **A1 Ghosts/Hauntings**. This was only supposed to be a tiny little oneshot... but it grew into a bit of a monster.
> 
> So many thanks to [cloud--atlas](https://cloud--atlas.tumblr.com) who did an amazing job of betaing this. I cannot be grateful enough. It would have been an amazing job even if she'd had more time. Any mistakes left in are entirely my own.
> 
> ...and don't worry, there's a reason I haven't used the Major Character Death warning, okay?

Clint sees dead people. It’s a thing. It’s always been a thing. Mostly they don’t talk to you, or look at you, or even seem to notice the living at all. They react to the living world with every bit as much care and attention as the living react to them - which is to say none at all.

It should be creepy, living with dead people surrounding you, but they’ve always been there. At least, they’ve been there since he was a kid, when his Dad boxed his ears so hard he knocked half the hearing out of them and knocked Clint’s brain halfway dead, or that’s what Clint thinks happened. He doesn’t know for sure and he was a kid at the time, so he just thought that it was normal.

It’s one thing he likes about high places: fewer dead people. Even the ones who threw themselves off didn’t _live_ up here, so it’s… nice. Not seeing the hollow echoes of people that no longer exist.

There are ways of interacting with them, though, ways to grab their attention. Someone at the circus showed him. Not the fortune teller, she was as fake as her wig, but one of the clowns - the one who painted the teardrops on his face every day, whether there was a performance or not. He caught Clint looking and, once when he was drunk, he showed Clint exactly how to get their attention.

Clint had nightmares for a week after that little party. He will never forget the voices and the hands reaching for him.

But it’s a way to make money, isn’t it?

And it’s a way to get punched in the face.

Barney tells him to sell it a little more, to make shit up if nothing good comes through. They’ve got their own act now, moved on from the circus to something a bit more respectable. They even have an office, names on the door and all, and people come to them. It’s big enough to draw a circle on the floor that’ll fit a handful of people inside, and the smoke detector’s not sensitive enough that the candles set it off. Sometimes Clint takes their money and sometimes he doesn’t, but whatever he does, he never breaks the circle.

You never break the circle.

He lives at the top of a newish building, in an apartment with no dead people. Barney’s grateful for that, too. He tries to pretend that Clint’s making it all up, that it’s just the schtick for their little show, but he knows Clint’s not lying. Clint doesn’t know if Barney believes in ghosts, but he believes that Clint believes, and he’s sufficiently freaked out by it not to want to live with an invisible roommate.

All of which has led Clint to today, in their cramped office with the venetian blinds sending slices of light across the room and the middle aged man with more jowl than neck sitting opposite him.

George Halloway wants to speak to his daughter. He’s a mean old dick and Clint can see his own father’s eyes looking out of George Halloway’s face. But he’s paying, and Clint already did three pro bono séances this week, so Barney’ll kill him if he turns the guy away. At least Clint doesn’t have to feel guilty about charging him.

He sets up the circle, the candles, the incense. Only some of the trappings are necessary, the rest are just for show. Clint doesn’t exactly look the part - worn through jeans and the bright purple t-shirt don’t look very occult - so he’s got to make sure people don’t feel cheated. The incense helps with that.

“How can you even hear them?” George Halloway says, gesturing to his ear, “with your… disability.” He says disability like ‘deaf’ is a dirty word, and his mouth curls in the way it would when thinking about picking up dog shit. Clint looks at him.

“They don’t exactly speak on the same wavelength,” he says, and waves his own hand in a gesture meant to imply ‘mystical bullshit’, but which might just as well be ‘shut up’. “I hear them just fine.”

He does, too, that’s not even a lie. The voices of the dead are the clearest thing he hears these days, like they cut directly through the bullshit damage to his ear bones and go straight into his brain.

George Halloway does not look convinced.

“You’re not a fraud, are you?” he asks.

“If I were, I wouldn’t exactly tell you,” Clint says. George starts to move towards the door, and that’s a couple of hundred dollars Clint won’t see again any time soon if he’s not careful. “No, I’m not a fraud. If I were a fraud, would I be dressed like this?” George Halloway seems to contemplate that for a moment, then nods. “Look, I’ve got two rules for this, okay?” Halloway nods. “Don’t break the circle.” Clint gestures to the circle of chalk and salt drawn on the floor. “Whatever you do, don’t break it. Don’t step over the line or put any part of your body over the line until I say you can, okay?”

“Fine,” Halloway says. Clint can already tell this is going to be a mistake. The expression on his face is one of exasperated disbelief, like he can’t believe Clint is trying to tell him what to do.

“The second rule is… be polite,” Clint says. It’s less of a cosmic rule and more just a guideline. The dead behave differently depending on how dead they are. If it’s recent, things can get ugly. Clint doesn’t need another headache from a wraith screaming obscenities, thanks very much.

The candle is home-made; it’s the only way to get one with the right ingredients. Shops aren’t exactly allowed to sell blood candles on their shelves - unhygienic medical waste, or something like that - and it has to be Clint’s blood anyway. Fucking blood magic. Barney makes him prick his finger every time too, for the showmanship of it, but it’s the blood in the candle that does it. The prick to George Halloway’s finger is more of a fine tuning mechanism. You’ve got to make sure the right ghost shows up.

Clint gives George Halloway a firm look, wondering if this is even worth it, then starts the chanting.

The chanting is not necessary, but it helps fill in the time between lighting the candle and the ghosts showing up. It’s not like they teleport right in. The lights are dim and the flickering candle is casting eerie light onto the walls. It had taken him and Barney a week to work out the best lighting for maximum eeriness and Clint only uses it with the assholes.

The ghosts come, as they always do, dozens of them. He hates the city. It’s full of the dead and their echoselves. They call New York the city that never sleeps and they think they’re talking about the living. Clint knows better.

He can see Megan Halloway, recognises her from the picture Halloway showed him earlier, and the look of hate on her face.

He knew this was a mistake.

“Speak, oh spirits, I command thee,” Clint pronounces to the room, like he needs to tell them that, they’re already speaking over each other in a many-layered whispering that would send shivers down Clint’s spine if he hadn’t heard it a thousand times before. He can even hear an old fashioned New York accent asking him if he’s for real. In the realm of the living, George is about as impressed by the theatrics as the ghosts are. “Megan Halloway, are you here?”

The ritual wakes them up, or that’s what the old clown had said. Something about energies and connections and conduits. Clint doesn’t know how it works, all he needs to know is that it does. The candle, a couple of words from him and the ghosts swarm, their eyes suddenly lit up with awareness they never have at any other time. Megan looks… fresh.

“Sure am,” Megan says. “He put you up to this?” She’s in her twenties, short hair, leather jacket, big-ass boots that are made for stomping. She ignores Clint, looking at her father like he’s the devil incarnate. Around her the other ghosts press in.

“She’s here,” Clint says to George, before turning to look at Megan. “Your father would like to speak to you,” Clint says. George looks up at him, and Clint raises his eyebrows to prompt him to speak.

“Meggie,” George says, looking around, clearly unconvinced.

“Don’t call me that, you piece of shit!” Megan says.

“She...ah… would prefer if you called her Megan,” Clint says. George narrows his eyes.

“Not what I said,” Megan spits, her hair is starting to move in a wind that doesn’t exist. Her outline is blurring slightly. “Tell him he fucking killed me and no amount of apologising’s gonna stop that from being true.” 

Oh hell, this is worse than Clint thought. She’s not just fresh, dead less than a year if he’s right, which is a fucking awful time to summon someone, she’s full of fury. She’s the kind of ghost that turns into a poltergeist or a revenant, the ones that can pierce through to the world of the living without his help. He’s only met a couple in his life, and they were not pleasant encounters.

He should call it now, snuff out the candle, refund George Halloway his blood money and shove him out the door. It’s not worth it. But he doesn’t.

“Tell him he’s a cowardly piece of shit and I hope he rots in hell.”

“Fuck,” Clint says, the sentiment is echoed by one of the ghosts.

“What?” George Halloway asks, eyes narrowing.

“Uh… she’s…” Clint needs the cash, and people don’t like to pay him to tell them to go to hell. But at the same time…

“Tell him… tell him I’m dead now, and I ain’t scared of him no more,” Megan says. “He can’t touch me now.”

“Tell her I’m sorry… I should have done better by her,” George says, lowering his eyes to his hands.

“No shit,” Clint says, without thinking about it. There’s a surprised laugh somewhere behind him. George’s head snaps up. “Uh…” Clint looks at Megan, who has that glow that ghosts get when they’re really truly angry. The blinds over the window are starting to move, just a little. This could get ugly, but Clint’s inside the circle and nothing can hurt him inside the circle. “She doesn’t accept your apology,” he says. “She… uh… she’s not scared of you anymore, and…”

“I don’t have to listen to this bullshit,” George Halloway says, standing up from his seat. “I didn’t pay you to accuse me of-”

Clint sees it happening, opens his mouth to say something, reaches out to grab at Mr Halloway, but he’s too late. He should have gone for the candle. That’s the thought that’ll stick with him through the pain: he should have gone for the candle.

George Halloway pushes the chair back a bit further and the leg screeches across the floor. It breaks the circle and everything goes to shit.

The thing is… once the circle’s broken, there’s nothing between the ghosts and Clint, and Clint… well, he’s sort of like a battery.

The electric lights explode, the blinds start to rip themselves apart as pure, unfiltered power swirls around the room, and there are arms, reaching towards him. George Halloway screams as his daughter, or what’s left of her, goes for him. Clint tries to reach the candle, to break the connection, but hands are already pulling him back; cold hands, reaching into his chest.

He screams.

“Fuck!” he hears, and it isn’t George Halloway’s voice. It’s the other one, the old timey New York accent, and Clint’s eyes open to see a young man’s ghost standing in front of him, trying to push the other ghosts off.

He doesn’t understand. Ghosts don’t have that much presence of mind, they don’t have much of anything at all. They’re just emotions and nothingness.

Something is wrapping around his heart. He can feel it in his chest, colder than any ice.

“Fuck, how do I stop them?” the ghost is asking. Behind him, George Halloway is crawling desperately for the door, his daughter and some other ghosts tearing at him, desperate for his warmth, or - in his daughter’s case - revenge.

There is not enough air, his lungs are freezing too, and Clint can barely gasp out the words as he’s pulled to the ground.

“The candle,” he calls around the ice in his throat.

It feels like decades, being ripped through by hands with no substance, no presence but cold. Clint knows he’s going to die, that he’ll end up haunting this office, another empty staring shadow of a life wasted.

Then…

He falls back, the hands are gone, the ghosts drift away, returned to their usual state of apathy. The only sound is the whimpering of George Halloway on the other side of the room.

The air is so warm in his throat, sweet and amazing as he breathes it in, and his heart is beating double time, but at least it’s beating. Clint swears, just to feel the words rumble through his body. He’s shivering, his teeth chattering against each other, but he’s alive. He wraps his arms around himself and he’s _alive_.

A face appears above him and Clint almost screams again, but smothers it and flinches back, his head finding the edge of his Ikea desk. The face is translucent, with the slight glow that ghosts have when he summons them, but the candle is out.

He stares at the ghost and the ghost stares back. This shouldn’t be possible. They can’t see him when the candle’s out. They can’t see him.

Clint looks around frantically, searching the room, but the other ghosts have drifted away again, back to their unlives. He looks back and the ghost is still staring at him.

“You okay, pal?” the ghost asks. It has a voice. Clint laughs, short, staccato and broken. Ghosts don’t talk unless you summon them. That’s the rule. “You sure look like you could use a stiff drink.”

There’s a bottle of whiskey in the desk, but Clint tends to avoid it unless Barney pours him a drink. He’s not sure he has the strength to lift the bottle right now.

“You’re gonna have to give me something, pal. I’ve got a feeling you’re the only one that can see me.”

“Fuck,” Clint says.

“Yeah, you said that already,” ghost-man says. He’s dressed old-fashioned, suspenders and an undershirt under his overshirt, which makes sense because where the hell else should it go? His hair is slicked back, and his sleeves are rolled up like he’s been working. He looks like someone from an old photograph and he’s got a face straight out of a black and white movie. Maybe Clint’s hallucinating. It makes sense that being attacked by an army of ghosts would do that to you. “Look, pal, I’m pretty sure I can’t touch you, or I’d give you a hand, but it looks like you’re on your own. That geezer sure as shit ain’t helping.”

Ghost-man jerks his head over to George Halloway, who’s alive, thank god, although there’s blood. He’s got his hands clamped over his face and he’s curled into a ball. There’s a trail of salt and chalk behind him, where he crawled through the circle to get free. Clint ignores him.

“Thanks,” he says to the ghost, “for the candle.”

“Sorry I didn’t figure it out sooner,” ghost-man says. “Don’t even know how I did it… I sure didn’t touch it.”

Clint doesn’t know either. He looks through ghost-man’s leg to where the candle lies on the floor, still smoking faintly but definitely out. He’s not going to question it too much, though. Magic is weird, Clint’s not about to start applying logic to it now.

Clint levers himself to his feet slowly. Ghost Guy is hovering around him, clearly torn between wanting to help and knowing he can’t.

“You can… go now,” Clint says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Sure, and I’m gonna shake the King of England’s hand one day!” Ghost Guy tells him, rolling his eyes.

  
“Queen…” Clint corrects. “It’s the Queen of England now.” He regrets it almost immediately, because he sees Ghost Guy taking in the world around them a bit more clearly: the computer on the desk, Clint’s clothes, the lighting and the sockets.

“Well ain’t that a fucking gas,” Ghost Guy says.

George Halloway whimpers and Clint slowly lumbers over there, until he’s standing over the crumpled, shaking mess that is his client.

“And that is why we don’t break the circle,” Clint says. He’s got no sympathy for the guy. He doesn’t know if Halloway killed his daughter literally or figuratively, and he guesses it doesn’t matter a hell of a lot. Clint’s never seen a ghost that mad before. Her fingers have left bloody scratches across his body.

“You…” George Halloway says, staring up at him with angry, scared eyes.

“You paid me for a service. I provided you with that service,” Clint says. “Not my fault you didn’t listen to the rules. Not my fault you’re such a dick your daughter still hates you now she’s dead. So get the fuck out of here and don’t come back. Or next time won’t be so pretty.”

“I’ll call the police,” George says, his voice stammering as he stands up. He pulls himself to his full height and tries to look down his nose, but his attempt at intimidation doesn’t exactly measure up to Clint’s 6’3” frame.

“Sure, and I’ll tell ‘em all about you,” Clint says. “You think she didn’t talk to me, George? You think she didn’t tell me everything you did? You think I don’t know where you hide your dirty little secrets? Or… not so little, I guess.” 

He’s got nothing more than her angry accusations - though he knows enough to be dangerous, which might as well be the Clint Barton guarantee - but ol’ George’s face gets really white and his eyes are as wide as dish plates, so Clint’s bang on target.

He doesn’t even ask for his money back, which is all that Clint really cares about. It would suck to go through all that and still not be able to afford the rent on this place.

“You’re just gonna let him go?” asks Ghost Guy.

“What else am I gonna do?” Clint asks, shrugging.

“Tell someone. A guy like that shouldn’t be let back out on the streets.”

“The streets are full of guys like that,” Clint says with a shrug, not looking the ghost in the eye. Last thing he needs is an undead conscience hanging around. “And who’m I gonna tell? Why yes, officer. His dead daughter told me he’d killed her. Yeah right. Been there, done that one. Spent enough time in the drunk tank. No thank you.”

“I’m really dead, huh?” Ghost Guy asks.

“Looks like,” Clint tells him. He doesn’t have the energy to sugarcoat things right now. Handsome McGhosterson is gonna have to deal with it.

“Ma always told me I’d come to a sticky end,” Ghost Guy says. “Though… I guess you can’t be sticky if you can’t touch anything.” He puts his hand through the desk. “How long… What year is it?” he asks, like ripping a Band Aid off.

“2020,” Clint says, wincing. This is fucked up. This whole situation is fucked up, but he thinks he’s done something to this poor guy. Ghosts don’t care about anything, that’s how they work, they walk around doing nothing, saying nothing, drifting through the streets and hallways, until you light up the candle and wake them up, and even then they only care about a few things. The people who loved them or hurt them or needed them, and - he rubs a hand over his heart - trying to steal the life from your chest. They’re greedy, fickle things, that have only enough room inside themselves for themselves. And it gets worse as they go on. Younger ghosts - fresh ghosts? Is that a better term, or does that make them seem more like meat? - have more coherence. Megan Halloway had died recently; Clint could tell because she was responding to her father, not just screaming. Older ghosts, like this one, they should have lost all of that, but here’s Ghost Guy having a wholeass conversation and reacting like a _person_.

“I need to sit down,” Clint says, and uses one foot to push his chair up to standing again before plonking himself down in it. “You’re… not normal,” he says. Ghost Guy looks at him, startled, as though remembering Clint’s there.

“I’m a ghost, pal,” Ghost Guy says.

“No, that’s normal, but you... you’re too normal to be normal,” Clint says, waving a hand. His brain is too tired to think about this, but if he’s done something to make this guy more aware then that’s on him. Because he’s always thought it was a blessing that the dead _didn’t know_. He can’t imagine the horror of finding yourself like that: stuck, unseen, unable to affect anything. The lack of awareness is a kindness. But this guy... “I fucked up,” Clint says.

“Yeah, you shouldn’ta talked to that geezer in the first place,” Ghost Guy tells him and shit, Clint needs a name for him. But if you name them, you get attached. Clint can’t have a pet ghost.

Is that offensive? Probably.

“2020,” Ghost Guy breathes. “I’m in the future… would you look at that.” His eyes are wide, and he seems steady only because he’s forcing himself to be. Clint would offer him a hand but… he remembers the desperate clutch of icy fingers beneath his skin. No.

“You got a name?” Clint asks.

“What? Oh, yeah, sure. Bucky Barnes,” the ghost says, offering his hand, before remembering and looking down at it with amused frustration. “Right… dead.”

“Nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes,” Clint says. “I’m Clint Barton, psychic and ghost-whisperer.”

“That’s one hell of a job title,” Bucky tells him. “How’d you get into something like this, anyway?”

“Bad luck and bad planning,” Clint tells him, and Bucky laughs. He sounds so alive when he does it.

“Sounds like my whole damn life, pal,” Bucky says, pushing a see-through hand through translucent hair. “Fuck, 2020, I wonder what happened to-”

Clint has seen a lot of things in his life - he summons ghosts for a living, after all - but he’s never seen one do this. Bucky crackles and flickers like an old TV with poor signal, and then he’s just… gone.

Clint stares at the space where, seconds before, there had been a ghost in suspenders and shirt sleeves, and blinks again. There’s nothing there.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asks the nothingness around him.

*

When Barney gets back he’s not exactly happy about the state of the place, even though Clint’s done his best to clean up. He’s not happy that George Halloway’s probably out there telling everyone Clint’s some kind of psychic torturer either, but he allows that it wasn’t Clint’s fault, and he’s pretty grateful they got to keep the money in the end. Their existence is pretty much from paycheck to paycheck.

Clint has two more clients that afternoon, both paying, both regulars. They come in to have their normal chats with their dead and Clint hangs on despite feeling stretched thin - an old line he remembers from _The Lord of the Rings_ pops into his head: like butter spread over too much bread. That’s it exactly, he thinks: butter spread over too much bread.

*

That night he collapses on the bed, asleep before he’s even hit the pillow, exhausted beyond belief. His nightmares are full of icy hands pulling him apart, but they don’t wake him.

He couldn’t say what it is about Bucky’s reappearance that wakes him, but something does, because he snaps alert, sitting up, to see Bucky standing in the corner of his room.

Clint swears loudly and Bucky holds up his hands.

“Sorry pal,” he says, and Clint can hear it right there in his head, even though his own swearing is still a muffled mess without his aids in.

“Are you watching me while I sleep?” Clint asks, and Bucky sticks his hands into his pockets, swaying slightly on the balls of his feet as he cocks his head to one side.

“I just… appeared back here,” Bucky says, shrugging. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Not scared,” Clint says, although that’s not entirely true. Bucky is different, and different is worrying.

The door to his room opens, splitting it in two with a streak of yellow light, outlining Barney’s silhouette.

Barney says something that sounds grumpy.

“Nightmares,” Clint replies. “Go back to sleep.” That earns him the finger.

“Next time you wake me up at three in the morning,” Barney signs, “we’re gonna need to find a medium fluent in sign language because I will fucking kill you.”

“Get earplugs,” Clint suggests. Barney ignores him and stalks out again.

“Brother?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “Look, where the fuck did you even go earlier?”

“I… don’t know,” Bucky says. “I just... I remember it hurt and it was cold, that’s all.”

“Great… and you decided to come back and bother me, why?” Clint’s too tired to keep to his own rules, but then Bucky’s breaking every rule Clint knows already.

“I didn’t exactly pick,” Bucky tells him. “But then, you’re the only guy who can see me, so I don’t know who else I’m gonna talk to. It’s not like there are a lot of people I knew coming around to give me the time of day.”

“Right…” Clint says. “So this is going to be like… a regular thing?” he asks, feeling even more tired by the second.

“You tell me, pal,” Bucky replies. “Between the two of us, you’re the one with all the fancy powers.”

“Great,” Clint says, flopping back onto the bed. Bucky stays there, standing in the corner. “Could you… not watch me sleep?” he asks.

“Right, sure thing,” Bucky says. “I’ll just…”

Clint sighs, because he’s willing to bet ghosts don’t sleep. He’s never seen one sleeping, after all, and even if Bucky is different, it doesn’t seem like he’s _that_ different. He pushes himself out of bed and heads down into the main living area of their tiny apartment to where they keep the TV. He turns it on and immediately lowers the volume. Barney was only exaggerating a little when he threatened to kill him. He likes his beauty sleep. God knows he needs it.

“Is that in colour?” Bucky asks, staring at the flat screen in astonishment.

“Yeah, they do that these days,” Clint tells him with a yawn. “Got a favourite genre?”

“Uh,” Bucky looks at him for a moment.

“What kind of stuff do you like?” 

“You got anything with robots?” Bucky asks.

Clint has been trying very hard not to think about the ghost as a person, he knows that’s a one way ticket to his own personal hell, but it’s really difficult when Bucky’s standing there, looking like he’s entered some kind of magical world - which Clint guesses is sort of true.

“Sure, robots,” Clint says, and finds some of his not-so-legal film copies, queuing up the Star Wars marathon to end all Star Wars marathons. “Try this…” He yawns again. “I’ll be in bed.”

Bucky’s already staring at the screen but turns to give him a grin.

“Thanks, pal.”

The smile lights up his face, making his already handsome features blindingly attractive. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s still see-through, Clint would be all over that. But that is a Bad Idea. It might even be a Terrible Idea.

*

Bucky is still there in the morning, as Barney bitches at Clint for leaving the TV on all night. He watches Clint down his coffee from the jug with just a hint of envy.

“I miss coffee,” he says, and there’s a strange flicker again and suddenly he’s not wearing shirt sleeves and suspenders anymore, he’s in uniform. Clint blinks. “We never got the real stuff at the Front,” Bucky says, and now Clint can make a pretty good guess at when Bucky died. He opens his mouth to say something before he remembers that Barney’s sitting right there. Explaining ‘I have a ghost stalker’ is not something he wants to do. Barney would _not_ be on board with that.

Bucky is, surprisingly, good company for a dead guy. He has a sense of humour so dry it catches Clint off guard nine times out of ten and he has to explain to Barney why he keeps laughing for no good reason. Not the _real_ reason, of course; as far as Barney’s concerned, Clint’s thinking an awful lot about those dog videos he watched the other day. He doesn’t think Barney believes him, but then, Barney’s not an idiot.

Sometimes he flickers out for hours or days at a time, sometimes he’s there constantly, shadowing Clint around. They chat when they’re alone, but the rest of the time it’s just Bucky’s constant voiceover of Clint’s life commenting on just how much of an idiot he is, and Clint can’t even argue because they’re in the middle of a grocery store and the man with fifty tins of pasta in his cart is looking at Clint like _he’s_ the mad one here.

It’s nice.

Clint knows he’s fucked up - that’s not news to anyone who’s ever met him - but he’s never exactly had friends; the circus folk were mostly older than him when he joined and the travelling life didn’t really lend itself to BFFs. Barney’s the closest thing he’s got and they resent each other almost as much as they love each other. It’s a brother thing. Or maybe it’s a Barton thing. So it’s nice to have someone else there to talk to and to listen to, another point of view. Someone to watch his back when he does another séance and his hands shake a bit as he lights the candle.

“I know what to do this time,” Bucky tells him over the head of the young woman who’s looking to talk to her grandpa. “Not sure how I did it last time, but I know I can do it again. Just try not to make it so I need to, okay?”

Bucky’s a steady presence watching his back and when he asks about it, how willing Bucky is to be there for him, Bucky just shrugs and says that he’s not the first blonde idiot with no sense of self-preservation he’s met, and that’s the end of the conversation.

*

They have a regular client, an old woman who comes in once a month to tell her sister all about how amazing her grandchildren are. It sounds sweet until you actually hear her. The whole session is one long list of how much better _her_ grandchildren are doing than her poor, dead sister’s.

Bucky had thought it sounded sweet, telling Clint he was cynical, right up until she got going.

“Oh, and Jo _anna_ ,” little Dora says, in this arch little tone, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Bucky’s staring at the back of her head incredulously. “Little Alice got into Johns Hopkins, did I tell you that last time? I can’t remember. Of course, we’d have still been happy if she were going to a _state_ university, like your dear Lucas is, but Johns Hopkins! To study medicine! Can you believe it?”

Joanna has been dead for over ten years and she’s losing herself a bit, fading out even when Clint calls her. As Dora talks, Joanna sways from side to side, only occasionally present enough to comment in a voice that seems far away, barely audible over the whispers of the other figures clustered round the circle.

“Dora?” she asks. “Are you lying again? I’ll tell ma.”

Clint tries not to look at Bucky’s face, where he’s watching proceedings with a growing amount of hilarity. Whenever their eyes meet Clint feels a bubble of hilarity expanding inside him, threatening to burst any second, and his lips twitch uncontrollably.

Bucky, being invisible, doesn’t have to stop himself, and cracks up every time. Peals of laughter punctuate Dora’s satisfied account of her family’s wondrous achievements.

“And I was so sorry to hear about young Harry,” she says. “Divorced again… what was that, his third?” She hums a little. 

Joanna sways closer.

“Dora, you’re a fucking sneak.” she says with utter conviction. Clint makes a herculean effort, but can’t keep his eyes from straying to where Bucky’s doubled over in laughter.

Clint glares at him, though he’s biting his lips together to keep from laughing. When an upset Dora notices, he has to explain to her that everything’s fine, Joanna’s still listening, and she’s very pleased to hear about Cooper’s first words.

Dora purses her lips, but continues, determined to eke out every second of her hour-long session.

*

“How’d you even get into this?” Bucky asks one night, when Barney’s out doing whatever it is Barney does for fun these days.

“What else do you do if you can see ghosts?” Clint asks with a shrug. “Seemed like I might as well make the most of it. They’re gonna be there anyway.”

“But the circle, the candle,” Bucky says, watching him with curious eyes. “You don’t just know that stuff, you’ve got to learn it somewhere.”

So Clint tells him about the circus and the clown. He even tells him about that first night, when he’d been so scared he’d wet himself, surrounded by ghosts who were suddenly so much more present than they ever had been before.

In turn, like he thinks it’s fair trade, Bucky tells him about a battle. Fighting Hitler’s armies for the first time, scared shitless and clutching his rifle, barely knowing which way was up.

It’s a quiet sort of night for a sorry sort of tale, and Clint wishes he could reach out and take Bucky’s hand and squeeze it. He reaches out, but his hand passes right through where Bucky’s is resting, and he thinks that if he concentrates, he can maybe almost feel it. He doesn’t ask Bucky if he feels anything, but he hopes he can.

*

Books are a problem. Not for Clint - he tends to read more comics than novels anyway - but for Bucky. Clint’s been working his way through every science fiction film and TV show he knows - they’re on Quantum Leap, and Bucky’s loving it - but Bucky misses books. Clint finds him looking at the one bookshelf in their apartment every now and then, just gazing longingly at them.

Clint takes a chance while Bucky’s on one of his not-here-again days and heads to the library. He asks the librarian for the audiobooks section and grabs anything that says it’s from the twenties or thirties, thinking maybe it's best to start with something familiar. There are a couple of Agatha Christie mysteries, something by a person called P.G. Wodehouse, and collection of sci-fi short stories from ‘The Golden Age’, whenever that was. It’s the closest thing to actual books he can think of, that Bucky might be able to enjoy, and he puts them on in his room when he goes to sleep each night.

Bucky seems to like them and when he asks for more by ‘that Wodehouse fella’ after following Clint to the library to return the first lot, Clint feels a little pulse of warmth in his chest.

*

Clint tells Bucky about his dad when they’re in the park one day. There are ghosts all around and Bucky comments that he guesses Clint’s never known anything different.

“Yeah,” Clint says, rubbing his hand over the back of his head, then pinching the bridge of his nose. “I did.”

They walk round in circles for an hour or so as Clint tries to put his words in order. It’s not something he’s ever really talked about before. Barney knows, people back at the circus hadn’t cared, and there’s no one else in his life who’d stuck around long enough to ask. Clint’s longest relationship is with the barrista who serves him his afternoon coffee.

He’s not expecting Bucky to get angry. It was so long ago, Clint doesn’t even see the point anymore, and his Dad’s long dead. Clint used to see him, sometimes, outside the circle, whispering at him, face still as drunk and angry as it had ever been, but he’d faded long ago and if he does still show up, he’s beyond talking.

“Damn good thing too,” Bucky spits out, when Clint tells him that. “If I’d’ve seen him, I’d’ve socked him in the jaw; you can be damn well sure of it!”

“He’s dead.”

“I’d still punch him,” Bucky says. “Fuck… you know, Clint. You’re really something.”

“Me?” Clint asks, shoving his hands in his pockets uncomfortably.

“You drew the short stick, and that’s for sure, but you’re helping people.” Bucky sounds so earnest and Clint doesn't know what to do with it.

“Sometimes,” Clint says, avoiding the certainty of Bucky’s gaze.

“You help the people who need it,” Bucky says. He walks in front of Clint, stopping there with his hands in his pockets, forcing Clint to either stop or walk right through him. “Look at me, pal.”

Clint looks up. He’s expecting Bucky to still look angry, but instead his expression is soft, his lips twisted up in a halfway wistful smile.

“You got no idea how good you are, have you?” Bucky says.

“What do you know?” Clint asks. “You’re dead.”

“Geez! Rub it in, why don’t you?” Bucky says with a laugh, turning to walk again. But he keeps looking back at Clint every now and then, that same little smile on his face.

*

Bucky doesn’t really talk about his own past much, except for at odd moments, when he flickers back into that uniform - or another uniform with a blue jacket and big boots that makes Clint’s mouth a little dry, if he’s honest. That’s when he says things; like missing coffee, like telling a rude story to make Clint smile on one of the bad days, like talking about pulling a trigger. Clint tries to respect his boundaries, doesn’t press, just lets him talk and sometimes offers payment with stories of his own. He even tells a few ghost stories - the made up ones, not the real ones.

Clint’s not very good at keeping his nose out of things, though. Bucky’s different and he doesn’t know why. It’s like an itch he can’t scratch. So Clint goes looking.

He doesn’t even think to try Google first, because how’s Google gonna know about a random soldier called Bucky Barnes? It’s not like Bucky’s going to be his real name, after all, and there must have been any number of Barneses that joined the US Army back in the forties to go sock Hitler in the jaw.

So he goes looking for military records instead. Finds paywalls and security clearances all over the place. Dead ends appear in front of him every which way and Clint can’t find a damned thing except books of endless names, ranks and serial numbers.

He only goes looking when Bucky’s on one of his disappearing trips, he doesn’t want to let him know that Clint’s trying to find him. It feels like a violation of privacy. Barney doesn’t know where he goes, doesn’t really care either, as long as he’s not getting them into trouble. In fact, Barney seems to think Clint’s got himself a girlfriend, which is so far from the truth in so many ways. It’s a little laughable, but it’s a convenient fiction, so Clint doesn’t try too hard to disabuse him of the notion.

He’s just got yet another thick book of names from one of the New York regiments back in 1943, listing everyone who enlisted. It’s propped up in front of him on the little formica table in the library cafe. It’s hard going and even his fourth cup of coffee isn’t helping him pay attention to the endless names and serial numbers that all blur together.

“History buff, huh?” a woman’s voice says and he looks up to see a pretty red-haired woman smiling at him from over a steaming coffee cup.

“Not really,” he tells her with a shrug.

“[...] just [...] light reading?” she asks. Even with his hearing aids in the background noise of the coffee shop covers her words, but he gets the meaning. Clint looks down at the page in front of him and quickly flips it closed, trying to hide it, although he couldn’t say why. Of course, that means that the cover’s sitting face up for her to read.

“Research,” he says and she steps forwards again.

“Family history?” she asks, Clint watching the shape of her mouth carefully to catch the words,

“For a friend,” he tells her.

“Maybe I can help,” she says. “Sorry, this is really rude of me.” She steps back, but the word ‘help’ sticks in his head.

“How…” he says. “How could you help?”

“I work at the university, I specialise in military history.” He stares at her, his eyes automatically scanning her for signs that this is a scam, though what the aim of it would be he doesn’t know. Nothing about her seems off; she looks genuinely like she would like to help.

“Really?” he asks and she nods.

“That’s why I came over,” she says. “I’ve looked through a lot of books like that over the years, and I’ve seen your exact expression on students’ faces.”

“You’re a little young to be a professor, aren’t you?” he asks. She can’t be more than mid twenties, looking at her, and he’d always thought professors were grey haired, tweed wearing sort of people, particularly history professors.

“I’m not a professor,” she says with another slight laugh and a shake of her head that makes red curls bounce around her face. “Post graduate student...” He can’t quite hear what she says next, something about socialists, he thinks, but apparently his confused stare is expected because she shakes her head again and moves a bit closer, making her voice a lot easier to make out. “Sorry, I specialise in World War II military history.”

“What a coincidence,” Clint says, grinning, although he can’t suppress the feeling of unease he has at her sudden appearance.

“Isn’t it?” she says. “So, tell me what you’re looking for and maybe I can help… May I?” She slides into the seat opposite him. Her face is filled with pleasant, helpful enthusiasm and she raises her eyebrows, expression completely open.

Clint racks his brains to think of what she could possibly be scamming him for but comes up with nothing. Maybe she is just a very helpful post graduate history student.

“I’m looking for a soldier,” he says, giving in. “He died in the Second World War, somewhere in Europe, I think. I know what he looked like and I have a surname, but nothing more than that.”

“That’s not a lot to go on,” she agrees. “Although we have facial recognition software these days, and whole databases of photos from that time. Is he a relative of your friend or…”

_He_ is _my friend_ , Clint thinks but doesn’t say.

“We don’t know,” Clint says. “We just have a picture and the surname.”

“Can I see the picture?” she asks.

“I… don’t have it, it belongs to my friend,” Clint tells her and she nods.

“Well, what’s the name?”

“Barnes,” he says. “But I’ve looked through every book I can find and I don’t know… he could be any of them.”

“Bit of a needle hunt,” she agrees. “Do you have an age? Any other information.”

“I think he was mid-twenties when he died,” Clint says. From what Bucky’s said, that seems right. He’d mentioned his twenty fourth birthday once. “And the only other thing I have is a nickname.”

“A nickname? Sometimes that can be useful,” she says. “We’ve got a lot of letters from that time and soldiers often referred to each other by nicknames rather than first names. It makes identifying people more difficult, but in your case, maybe it will help. What’s the nickname?”

“Bucky,” Clint says. “Bucky Barnes.” 

She blinks and opens her mouth to say something when suddenly there’s that fizzing crackle in the air and Bucky flickers into existence again, just behind her. He looks between the two of them and his eyebrows raise, his mouth opening to say something.

“I’ve got to go,” Clint says, standing up abruptly, downing the rest of his coffee. “My friend just arrived. Thanks for your time!” he tells her, and walks out of the cafe.

“You didn’t have to leave your date on my account,” Bucky says. “She was pretty, I would have cleared out for you, y’know.”

“It’s fine,” Clint hisses, realising that he left his book behind on the table and also that he didn't even get the woman’s name. Great. This is all going just great. At least Bucky doesn’t seem to realise what he was actually doing there. “It wasn’t a date.”

“But it could have been,” Bucky tells him, giving a lopsided grin. “It’s like I always used to tell Stevie, you’ve got to make the most of your opportunities. And she was definitely giving you the eye.” Clint doesn’t respond. “Seriously, you spend too much time on your own,” Bucky continues. “And I’m pretty sure that I don’t count for much these days, you should…”

Clint wheels into an alleyway and stops, spinning round to look at Bucky.

“You count,” he says. Everything’s sort of frothing up inside him and he can’t work out what he’s even thinking any more. Sure the woman in the coffee shop had been pretty, and he’s had enough people flirt with him over the years that he knows the signs - so he knows she was definitely flirting with him - but it hadn’t even crossed his mind to take her up on the offer, and that’s worrying. He’d looked at her and hadn’t felt as much as he does when he sees Bucky smile at a new TV show, or a game on his phone. He steps right up into Bucky’s space, not that Bucky is anything but space. “You count.”

There’s a moment as their eyes lock and Clint can’t look away. They stay like that, frozen, until Clint sees realisation dawn in Bucky’s eyes. As Bucky opens his mouth to speak, Clint knows he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’m never going to see her again,” Clint says, cutting him off. “Didn’t even get her name.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, so Clint takes that to mean the conversation’s over and turns to walk out of the alleyway. Bucky doesn’t follow him.

He heads back to the cafe to grab his book, which is now behind the counter, and the red haired student is nowhere in sight. He doesn’t feel disappointed.

Bucky stays away for two days. Clint doesn’t know whether it’s because he’s freaked out by whatever he saw in Clint’s eyes or if it’s because he’s flickered out again and gone to that cold painful place that he refuses to talk about.

He shows up again late one night; walks right through the door, which Clint thinks might mean he was staying away on purpose, and ‘sits’ down next to Clint on the sofa. He doesn’t exactly touch it though, and there’s always something unsettling about looking at him when he does that because the sofa doesn’t move under his non-existent weight and he casts no shadow. He looks like a bad Photoshop job.

“Hey Bucky,” Clint says, channel-hopping through the different circles of daytime TV hell.

“There was this fella back in Brooklyn,” Bucky says, staring at the screen without seeing it. Clint glances over again and he’s done another one of those quick changes; there’s a hat on his head, at an angle on slicked back hair, and he’s got a full three-piece suit on all of a sudden. “Danced with all the girls. Regular twinkletoes.” He pauses. “There was a way of doing things back then, I don’t know how it works now, but you could recognise each other. He’d give me the nod, sometimes. Billy, his name was - reckon he died in Italy in the end - but he’d give me the nod and I always thought I wouldn’t… not this time.”

Clint doesn’t hold his breath, but it’s a close thing. Bucky’s still got that far off look.

“Never did anything much, just… hands…” Bucky says. “Ain’t got time for much more than that when you’re listening for the cops every second, and it wasn’t nothing like love.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Clint says, because his mouth never stays still long enough.

“No, guess it doesn’t,” Bucky agrees. “Told myself it was nothing, but the way he tipped his head at me, with that look in his eye, made my heart beat double time every time.”

“It’s not… illegal, anymore,” Clint says slowly. “Two guys.”

“Yeah, figured that one out myself,” Bucky tells him, finally turning to face him. “Took a bit of a walk after our… conversation. Never thought I’d see queer folks out in the open like that.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, because when he was a kid he’d never have thought it, either. Backwater Iowa wasn’t exactly an open and loving kind of place.

“But I’m dead,” Bucky says, looking right at Clint. “I talk and I walk, but I ain’t really here, doll.”

“You’re pretty real to me,” Clint comments, and Bucky laughs.

“And you’re all that’s real to me,” Bucky tells him. “Not sure it’s a good idea if I keep hanging out with you.”

“Bucky-” Clint starts.

“You ain’t had a date since I got here,” Bucky tells him. “You pal around with me and your brother and the only other people you see are the dead, or those who want to talk to them.”

“That’s not true, I talk to Mrs Kim at the store,” Clint says, but even he knows that’s a hollow argument.

“There’s a whole world out there,” Bucky tells him. “So I think maybe I’m going to go and see it. And maybe that’d be best for both of us.”

“I don’t…”

“I’ll pop in,” Bucky says. “Make sure you’re not doing anything too stupid, but I can’t be here, Clint.”

“It’s not like I was going to do anything,” Clint tells him, a bit hopelessly.

“That’s kind of the problem, doll,” Bucky says. He reaches out and Clint knows that they can’t touch, that Bucky’s edges are just lines in the air, but he lets himself pretend that he can feel it as Bucky’s finger traces the line of his face.. “See you around, sweetheart,” Bucky says.

And then he’s gone.

*

Clint gave up crying over people who left a long time ago, it never does any good. Maybe he’d been counting on the fact that he was the only one Bucky could talk to to make him stick around, and that’s not fair.

He watches some crappy TV and orders pizza, ignoring the looks he gets from Barney. 

Life goes on.

Barney, whose been bugging him about this ‘girlfriend’ he thinks Clint’s been seeing, thinks they must have broken up, which is as good a story as any, Clint figures. It at least affords him a week of feeling sorry for himself before Barney drags him out to a bar and proceeds to introduce Clint to every girl there. It doesn’t end so well when Clint’s throwing up all over himself and telling Barney that actually he likes sucking cock just as much as he likes eating pussy, thank you very much. Drunk Clint is not very good at tact.

After that, Barney’s pretty much out of sympathy with him, although Clint thinks it’s probably because of the vomit all over his trousers and not because he now knows Clint’s bisexual. He’s been shockingly quiet about that, though Clint doesn’t bring it up, either. He’s not going to fuck things up more by actually trying to talk about it. 

He remembers the library book three days later and groans, because late fees, but if he wants to do any more research there, it’s not like he can go back without returning it. He heads back, tail between his legs and hands over the fine to the disapproving man behind the counter. Apparently he shouldn’t even have taken that book out of the building in the first place. He does his best to smooth things over before turning to slope off again.

Clint doesn’t realise the guy’s been calling to him until a hand taps Clint’s shoulder and he turns to see the desk guy standing there. Clint wonders if they found the coffee stain already, but the man’s holding out a piece of paper.

“You left this in the book,” he says, smiling vaguely and Clint takes it automatically, though he hadn’t made any notes. 

When he looks down at the paper he sees that the handwriting isn’t his; it’s far too neat, in parallel, regimented diagonal lines that seem almost militant in their uniformity.

‘James Buchanan Barnes,’ is written there. ‘Born 3/10/1917’

He stares at the name, because there’s the Barnes and it’s easy to see how “Buchanan” would become “Bucky”, but _how?_

He turns right back around again and goes up to one of the computers there, typing the name into the library database though he doesn’t know if that’ll do anything at all.

There are three thousand results. _Three thousand_. He blinks in astonishment and slowly scrolls down the list.

_Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes: the History of Heroism_ , the first entry says. Then there’s _The Myth of the Sidekick: James Barnes and the Shadow of Captain America_ and _Bucky Barnes and Captain America: Brothers in Arms? Examining America Through a Queer Lens_. Clint’s mouth falls open. The whole list is like that. Titles and subtitles. More and more of them.

He knows about Captain America, of course he does; everyone knows Captain America. But it’s not like they’d studied him in school; he’d just… known about him for as long as he could remember. And then he’d come back a few years ago, all red, white and blue and the American Way. _Everyone_ knows Captain America. But apparently a lack of regular schooling had left him with a couple of gaps. No wonder that woman in the cafe looked so surprised when he said the name. _Three thousand results_.

He grabs the reference numbers and heads over to the relevant shelves, his heart thudding in his throat. The books are all there, lined up on the shelf in their plastic dust jackets with Dewey Decimal stickers on the bottom of their spines, and as he pulls each one from the shelf he sees Bucky’s face grinning back at him, or staring back with steely-eyed determination, or staring out into the distance with a strange sort of longing.

He grabs so many the man at the desk won’t let him check them all out at once, so he has to narrow it down to six. He may, possibly, have narrowed it down by which had the best picture of Bucky on the cover. It’s not like anyone’s ever going to know except him, and… it’s not like he can look at actual Bucky any more. Carrying them home is more of a trial, because he didn’t think to bring a bag - he was only going to return a book after all - but he manages. He’s got no appointments until tomorrow, so he spends half the night poring over the books, reading as much as he can and kicking himself because he’s pretty sure any other person in the country would have recognised Bucky Barnes immediately. His ghost is famous.

He also has no idea what to do with that information.

Part of him wants to tell Captain America. He deserves to know… what? That his best friend is dead? He knows that. That his best friend is stuck as a ghost and never going to achieve any kind of peace? Who would want to know that? That Clint has a crush on the ghost of his best friend and he thinks that maybe Bucky has a crush back?

It’s hopeless.

He doesn’t even have Bucky here anymore to prove it. And what good would it do anyone? What good does he ever do anyone? He tells them their loved ones are just… hanging around, with dead eyes and hungry souls. He never gives anyone any true peace or closure. He earns money from other people’s grief. Why would Captain America ever want to speak to him?

That doesn’t stop him from walking into Avengers Tower one day and walking right up to the desk. But when the receptionist asks him how they can help, Clint opens his mouth, closes it, and turns around to walk out the way he came.

His feet keep carrying him there without his permission, though. He walks past the Tower at least once a week, unable to keep away. But he’s got nothing to say in there; no way to prove himself and no reassurances to give.

Sometimes he thinks about Bucky’s voice saying ‘Stevie’ and scrubs his hand over his hair as he looks up at the building. Sometimes he thinks of the people who’ve written books about how close Bucky was to ‘Cap’ and the speculation there’s been. He doesn’t want to know. He thinks maybe at a glance, he could look like Steve Rogers. He’s got the blond hair, the height, and his muscles aren’t exactly super soldier but they’re respectable. He tries not to think about why sometimes Bucky would look at him like he was the ghost and at other times like he was a three course meal behind glass.

*

Clint devours every book about Bucky Barnes he can find and watches those old movies he’d always switched over before. He reads forums about Captain America’s exploits and even finds a short, out of print, run of comics that have Bucky running around in the most ridiculous outfit Clint has ever seen: booty shorts and red tights.

He thinks about Bucky wearing that… maybe… a little, that night.

There are no other ghosts like Bucky and Clint wonders what it was that made him so special. Why did he retain so much of himself when none of the others do? Why didn’t he fade as they all do over time, becoming less sharp-edged, less opaque, less there?

What happened to Bucky Barnes?

Clint had been ninety percent sure it was his fault, because the guy had been right there when the circle had broken and it had all gone to hell. But now, knowing the guy’s backstory involves superheroes and Nazi experimentation, he’s not so sure.

He doesn’t know why he even bothers, to be honest. Bucky’s gone and there’s nothing he can do for a dead man. Perhaps it’s just morbid curiosity, or maybe there’s a part of his brain that wants to think that because Bucky is so real, he can save him somehow. He’s never been able to save any of them before.

He’d tried a couple of times, when he’d first learnt how to talk to them. He’d thought about unfinished business and moving into the light and all that Hollywood crap, but all it had ever earnt him was a broken rib and a lot of relief when they left that small town behind. And the ghost had still been there, just as hollow as before, following that woman around like a lost duckling.

Why is he even bothering with this?

He sees Captain America one time - walks right past him as he jogs down the street, fresh as a daisy in sweatpants and a too-tight t-shirt. Clint almost stops him, but he waits too long and Cap’s gone, jogging off into the distance without so much as a falter in his step.

Maybe he just wants someone to talk to about all of this. He knows better than to tell Barney about it, and he wants someone who knows Bucky - _knew_ Bucky - to talk to. Maybe he could hear the stories Bucky had told, but from Steve’s viewpoint, and he could tell Cap… well, how Bucky saved him from having his soul ripped out by ghosts.

He picks up a guy, takes him home, kisses him up against the wall to Barney’s room, because Clint feels like pressing the issue, then drags him to bed. He’s got dark hair, light eyes, but his smile’s all wrong and he’s cocky in the wrong kind of way. He stays ‘til morning, gets a raised eyebrow from Barney over coffee and cereal, then gets kicked out. Clint doesn’t even remember his name.

“Whoever the guy is,” Barney says, “the one that knocked you on your ass. You’re gonna have to get over him.”

“There was no guy,” Clint says. It’s technically true, he supposes. Bucky was dead, does he even count any more?

“Yeah, right,” Barney says. “You think I don’t know how you look when you’ve got your idiot heart broken again?” Clint glares at him from between his bedhead and his coffee mug. “Go shoot some goddamn arrows and get your head back in the game. You almost lost us a client yesterday.”

Clint winces, because he knows Barney’s right. He’s been looking for Bucky at all his séances recently, and as a result he’s had trouble keeping his patience with their clients. Mr and Mrs Brocklehurst had been after some priceless heirloom their gran had supposedly hidden before she died, a real Agatha Christie kind of deal, and they’d been willing to pay a lot. Clint had… not been as welcoming as he should have been.

A trip to the range sounds good, though. He hasn’t been since Bucky left, too caught up in reading the books, and researching online, and watching those old documentaries, pausing them on the footage of Bucky’s stupid face and looking at it like it could answer the questions he’s asking.

He grabs his bow and heads out, feeling the twinges of guilt about last night coming down over him. He’s not sure if he feels more guilty about using the guy because he couldn’t have what he wanted or about having sex with someone who wasn’t Bucky, even though both of them are stupid reasons to feel guilty.

He shoots and shoots. It’s a strange form of meditation, but there’s something in the rhythm of the motions and the sounds that always soothes him. He uses the arrows to spell out rude words on the target, because that seems like it might be fun, and almost gets thrown out after an imperious mother rushes her child out past him hissing something his hearing aids don’t pick up.

Bucky appears right in front of him as he releases an arrow. 

Clint almost drops his bow in horror as the arrow passes right through Bucky’s head. He swears, loud and long, as Bucky comes towards him. But he looks different.

He looks _completely_ different.

His hair is longer, his eyes wild, his face is twisted in pain. There’s something wrong with his left arm, it keeps shifting, changing, disappearing only to come back.

“Clint…” he gasps, falling to his knees as his body flickers and twists like a faulty TV image. The crackle is back in the air, but more constant. “Help…”

The first rule of the archery range is that you don’t cross the line before the whistle blows. Clint ignores it, rushes out, and people are shouting and the whistle is blowing and he knows they’re coming.

Bucky’s eyes stare into his, haunted and hollow, and for a second he worries that Bucky’s turning back into one of the other ghosts, the normal ones, but it’s not the same sort of hollowness. It’s pain.

“Bucky, what’s going on?” Clint asks, shrugging off the hand that lands on his shoulder as he drops to his knees to get as close to Bucky as he can. “What’s happening?”

“I… I’m not dead…” Bucky gasps at him, and Clint stares in incomprehension. That’s not possible. It’s not even - he has to be dead. He’s been dead since 1944. Every book, every documentary, every online article has agreed on that point: Bucky Barnes fell to his death in the Swiss Alps in 1944 during a raid on a train carrying Hydra weapons across Europe. “Clint, they… they got me back… they’re…” The cry that escapes Bucky’s mouth sears itself into Clint’s consciousness as he watches him start to flicker more. “Pro..ct F..rum…” his voice is clipping in and out and Clint can’t make out the words as Bucky looks at him, pleadingly.

Then he flickers out completely, and Clint is staring at empty space, surrounded by some very angry looking security guards.

“Sir… rules… there… safety,” one of them is saying, and Clint has the distinct impression he is not going to be welcome back to the range anytime soon. He has bigger problems, though. He half runs to grab his things, taking his bow apart as quickly as possible before packing it away, ignoring the people around him who keep trying to talk to him. Something that is made a lot easier after he turns his hearing aids off. He just walks straight past them all, shouldering his bag and heading for the door. He doesn’t really understand what just happened, but he knows two things: Bucky is in trouble and there’s only one person he can turn to for help.

*

Avengers Tower juts out into the skyline with all the grace and finesse of flipping someone the bird. Before, it has always left Clint feeling just a little bit smaller and more insignificant than he usually does. Today, he just walks straight in. He hasn’t changed his clothes, just stepped on the subway and came straight here, his bow bag is still on his back. He must look a sight as he strides up to the reception desk.

“I need to speak with Captain America. Urgently,” he says. The lady blinks at him then turns to the man next to her as though to say, ‘Why couldn’t you have taken this one?’

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asks.

“Pretty sure ‘urgently’ means I don’t need one,” he tells her. “Just call him up and tell him that it’s about Bucky Barnes.”

“Uh, sir… the Avengers ... busy people,” she tells him. “If you’d like to leave your contact details, I can have him call you back.”

Clint looks at her then looks over to the other guy behind the desk, who’s staring at him with the open eyed amused expression of someone who is going to tweet about this in approximately five seconds, and realises he’s not going to get anywhere like this.

“Sure…” he says. “I’ll come back later.” He turns on his heel and walks out and round the corner, waiting until he’s out of sight of any of the security cameras.

Right, so the direct approach isn’t going to work. It’s time for Plan B.

It’s been a long time since Clint partook in any sort of B&E but, while he’s rusty, he’s not without skill. He’s kept in shape, he’s got his bow and arrows, including a few of the trick ones he still makes for fun every now and then, and he remembers a few things.

Like how to pickpocket the ID card from a Stark Industries employee who was walking out at the same time he was. Like the subtlest way to grab a shirt and some trousers from a dry cleaner down the road and change into them in the toilet of a cafe. The sleeves are too short, but he rolls them up his forearms. He can’t do anything about the shoes but hope people don’t notice.

Like hiding amongst a crowd of people heading back into the office after their lunch break, keeping his head down so the receptionists don’t notice him.

“Hey, sorry, I don’t remember your name,” one guy says and Clint gives him a winning smile.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got one of those faces,” he tells him as they step into the elevator together. “Frank,” he says, patting the guy’s shoulder. There’s a ghost standing on the other side of him and Clint tries not to look too uneasy as the press of bodies forces him to share its space.

The first rule of not getting caught is to not look out of place, so Clint makes polite conversation about the game last night and commiserates over the over time they’ll all be working to make sure the new product releases on time. He hums in agreement as people talk about meetings and deadlines and then keeps going up as they all peel off to go to their relevant floors.

After the last person leaves, he hits the highest button on the elevator, because he figures the Avengers have to be at the very top, and waits. The doors close but the elevator doesn’t move. He stabs the button again.

“Sorry, sir, […] facial rec[...]tion […] not showing you [...] access [...] floor,” the elevator says, and Clint freezes. He looks up at the little camera he’d spotted over the door.

“There must be some mistake,” he says. “I’m Frank, it is my first day, though… there might have been some sort of mix up?”

“No ne[...] starters [...] listed as [...]ame Frank,” the elevator voice says.

“It’s a nickname,” Clint tries. “Look, maybe your databases are wrong. Technology fucks up all the time, right?”

“Not my technology,” says the elevator and Clint winces at the tone, clear even to him. “Please wait [...] will [...] credentials.”

“How about no,” Clint says, looking up. He presses the ‘doors open’ button, which works, probably because of health and safety, and steps out into the corridor beyond. There’s nobody there, but he doesn’t doubt that security is on its way and he doesn’t want to risk being arrested when he hasn’t even done what he came here to do.

He finds the access to the ventilation shafts in a cupboard that stinks of bleach. At least it doesn’t have a camera in it, which he’s double grateful for when it takes more effort than he’d like to cram his frame through the gap. The fewer pictures of that, the better. He’s out of practice and maybe a little bigger than the skinny teenager who used to be able to do this at the drop of a hat.

Barney’s going to fucking kill him for this.

It’s slow progress, but he manages to make his way upwards more by luck than judgement, turning in opposite directions at every choice he gets and climbing up the shaft by wedging himself in and shuffling upwards like a weird kind of worm. The shafts are barely big enough for him. He won’t be able to turn around and he has to wiggle his shoulders uncomfortably every time he takes a corner.

He must rise at least one storey up and he knows that by now they must know he’s in the vents. But there aren’t any cameras in here and he’s pretty sure they can’t do anything to him without also compromising the air supply to the whole building, which he’s betting on them not wanting to do.

Finally, he comes to an opening. But he sees only a corridor below and he doesn’t want to be spotted by another security camera, so he keeps going, taking another scramble upwards until he’s shuffling over another vent.

Looking down through this one he sees a huge room, the floor at least thirty feet below him. A gym, he thinks, from the lines drawn on the floor and the equipment he can see. He’s about to move on when a voice speaks, but he can’t make out the words and waits, heart pounding, until a person comes into view below him.

Captain America is looking directly up at him.

“I think [...] maybe [...] down now, son,” he says, hands on his hips. “I’m [...] wanted to talk [...]ight?”

Clint freezes.

“If I come down are you going to listen to me?” he asks.

“Sure,” Cap says. Clint doesn’t think he believes him, even if he’s Captain America. The Stevie of Bucky’s stories never had a problem lying for the right reason.

“Yeah… I think I’ll stay up here, thanks” he says.

Another person steps into view and Clint sees the Black Widow standing right next to Cap, except… now he can see her face and he knows that face.

“Does [...] to do [...] looking [...] Barnes?” she asks, and yes, that’s her; the woman from the coffee shop. He knew he’d been right to be suspicious of her.

“He’s in danger,” Clint blurts out.

“Bucky Barnes is dead,” Cap says, and Clint hears that clear enough.

“Not according to him, he’s not,” Clint says. He sees Black Widow say something to Cap, too quietly for him to pick any of it up, and Cap’s expression turns stony.

“Come down,” Cap says. “[...] talk about this.” Except his tone of voice makes ‘talk’ sound suspiciously like ‘fight’ and Clint remembers vividly Bucky’s mentions of Steve’s ‘punch first’ attitude to bullies.

“I think I’d prefer to talk from up here,” Clint says. “It’s kind of homey when you get used to it.” He pauses. They’re the Avengers, they’ll come up with a way to get him out of there, he knows, but before that he’s got to come up with a really good reason for them not to shoot him on sight. He thinks frantically. 

“Bucky told me…” Clint racks his brains for something that wasn’t in those books or documentaries, something that just came from Bucky. “He said Stevie… he calls you Stevie. He said you used to wear newspaper in your shoes because they were too big otherwise,” he calls down, and he sees Cap’s eyes widen. “He told me you used to draw pictures of robots for him on bits of wallpaper that had peeled off the walls. Star Wars reminded him of them… he likes R2D2 best.”

Suddenly the piece of shaft he is in begins to vibrate and Clint looks behind him to see a glowing line appearing.

“Aw shit,” he says eloquently, before Iron Man pulls the shaft apart and slides him out like Smarties out of a tube.

Being carried to the ground by Iron Man is a surreal experience. He carries Clint like he’s a sack of potatoes and Clint wants to struggle, but he’s also aware of the drop below him and the fact that Iron Man’s grasp is rigid and probably unbreakable unless you’re a supersoldier.

Then he’s face to face with Captain America, Black Widow, and Iron Man, which is more than a little terrifying.

“You know, when I dreamed of this, I always thought I’d look cooler,” he says. “Hi, Mysterious Coffee Lady.” He waves at Black Widow. She doesn’t smile back, just crosses her arms over her chest and gives him an unreadable look.

“Why are you so interested in Bucky Barnes?” she says.

“Because I met his ghost,” Clint replies. “Didn’t know who he was until you clued me in, though. Thanks for that.”

“You didn’t know?” Cap asks.

“You [...] ghost?” Iron Man says at the same time.

“Yeah, I see ghosts,” Clint says. “They’re everywhere, they don’t bother you unless you bother them, yadda yadda, there’s life after death - if you can call it that - but it doesn’t look fun. Can we skip to the part where Bucky’s not dead?”

“You just said he was a ghost,” Cap says.

“Yes, but…” Clint shakes his head and makes to step forwards, but Iron Man’s grip on him doesn’t move. “Right… breaking and entering, I’ve been very naughty, got it. But Bucky’s in trouble.”

“You still haven’t explained why we should believe you,” Cap says.

“What the fuck do I have to gain by lying to Captain America about his best friend being alive?” Clint asks. “I didn’t even know he was Captain America’s best friend until she told me.”

“That’s true,” Black Widow says with a bob of her head. “He had no idea, unless he’s a far better liar than I am.”

“Somehow I doubt it,” Clint says. “You’re very good. Have you considered acting as a career? I hear it pays better than superheroing.”

“What makes you think I haven’t tried it already?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Look, I know I sound like a crazy person. You think I don’t realise that? But Bucky was a ghost, he came to me while I was talking to another ghost and saved my life, then he hung around. He’s not like the others, though. He’s always been… more himself. And then he left and I found out who he was and I freaked out a bit and I didn’t know whether to tell you, but I thought I probably shouldn’t, until he came back today and he looked different and he was in pain and he asked me to help him.”

“Let’s say [...] the basic premise [...] ghosts are real,” Iron Man says, with no mouth to look at and with him standing behind Clint, it’s hard to follow his words. “[...] bullshit, by [...]ay, but [...] say we accept it. How [...]ould ghosts [...] pain?”

“I don’t know. But he was screaming and he told me he was alive and that he needed help and you were the only people I could think of who would help me. You can throw me out of here if you want, but I’m going to help him.”

Cap steps up to him looking very serious and, for the first time in his life, Clint realises he is taller than Captain America, which is a weird kind of wrong that his brain does not compute. He stares back, trying to look as honest as possible which, it turns out, is kind of difficult when Iron Man is holding you by your wrists like he’s about to frogmarch you to the police himself.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” Clint says, because his instinctive reaction to danger is to joke about it. “Although you might want to get the ventilation shafts checked, they’re a little tight. And I think one might be a bit broken.”

“What did Bucky say to you?” Cap asks.

“Steve, [...] believe [...],” Iron Man says. “[...] job is [...] scam [...] money!”

“Hey!” Clint says. “It’s not a scam… well, it’s mostly not a scam. I only scam assholes out of money. I don’t take money if they can’t afford it.”

“That’s true,” Black Widow says, stepping forwards again and examining his face with that same carefully blank expression.

“Just tell us what Bucky said,” Cap says.

“He… said they had him again and that he needed help and…” Clint racks his brains. There had been something else. “Protect… project… something like that, I couldn’t hear him so well, he was flickering in and out like crazy. Project F… something… Frum? Protect F something rum?”

“JARVIS,” Iron Man says. “[...] SHIELD’s databases and [...] make something [...] that.”

“Certainly Sir,” says a voice that comes from nowhere and sounds suspiciously like the elevator voice Clint had pissed off earlier. “Shall [...]quest [...] help [...] Barton?”

“No,” Iron Man says, followed by something else Clint doesn’t catch. He wishes people would just look at him when they’re talking to him. Then he’s being pulled along and out of the room.

“Hey, watch it, Tin Can,” he says. Iron Man responds but he can’t make out what he says.

*

Clint’s shoved unceremoniously into a bedroom and the door is locked behind him.

It’s a nice room, far bigger than any of the rooms in his own apartment, and the bed is almost obscenely comfortable under him as he falls back onto it.

“Mr Barton [...]” the disembodied voice - JARVIS, Clint recalls - says. He opens his eyes and the voice repeats whatever it just said, but Clint’s tired and his concentration is shot to hell and he can’t find it in himself to focus.

“Look, nice to meet you and all, but I can’t make out a word you’re saying so perhaps we could-”

He’s cut off as words appear on the ceiling in front of him.

_Mr Barton, Captain Rogers would like to know if Sergeant Barnes contacts you again, and Agent Romanoff asks whether you believe Sergeant Barnes may have mentioned Project Fulcrum._

Clint considers it for a moment.

“Yeah, sure I’ll tell Cap if I see him again, and I… guess that could be what he said. It started with an f and it definitely ended in rum, that’s all I know.”

_Thank you, Mr Barton,_ the ceiling writing says.

“No problem,” Clint says. “Anything that helps Bucky, y’know. And… uh… sorry about earlier, I guess. I just needed to get to Cap.”

_Understood_.

Right, the ceiling guy’s still mad at him.

_You uncovered weaknesses in our security_ , the writing continues after a second. _These will be rectified at the soonest opportunity._

“You’re welcome,” Clint tells him. “Can you… can you tell me what’s going on?”

There is a pause, which Clint takes to mean that the ceiling guy, JARVIS, is asking for permission.

_Sir, the Captain and Agent Romanoff are investigating your claims. They have found something known as Project Fulcrum in the SHIELD archives, but the files require decryption._

Right, okay, so that could be a thing. Clint doesn’t know what SHIELD is or what Project Fulcrum could possibly be, unless it’s some kind of secret project looking into immortality. He wouldn’t put that past the government. He knows he’s not the only person out there who can see ghosts, the clown at the circus hadn’t liked to talk about it but he’d been clear that he’d met others before as well, so it’s not too much of a push to assume that one of them found their way into the government or some top secret agency somewhere.

There are no ghosts up here in Avengers Tower, which is nice or it would be nice apart from how all his thoughts are caught up with Bucky and how Clint’s going to be dragged off to jail for breaking into Avengers HQ. That’s probably considered an act of terrorism or something, and they’ll throw away the key.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, they took his phone from him and he doesn’t wear a watch these days, but it seems like both forever and no time at all before the crackle in the air comes again and Bucky’s standing in front of him. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes.

“Ready to comply,” he says as Clint sits up, his whole body juddering. And then the strange version of Bucky disappears, leaving him looking more like the Bucky Clint knows but bulkier, with longer hair and his arm still flickering like it had before at the range. Maybe he should have mentioned that to Cap.

“Bucky?” Clint asks, stepping forwards. “What the fuck happened?”

“Where are you?” Bucky asks, looking around. “Clint… what did you do? Did they get you?”

“Who?” Clint asks. “Look… I went to see a friend.”

“I don’t think any of your friends are going to be able to help with this,” Bucky says, he winces again, as though pain just shot through him.

“Not my friend, your friend,” Clint says, shuffling awkwardly on the bed. Bucky stares at him as though he’s crazy.

“Clint, I’m from the 1940s, pretty sure my friends aren’t up to it, either.”

“Yeah, you’d think that, but… uh,” Clint says. “I kind of looked you up.”

“You what?” Bucky asks, like Clint’s speaking a different language.

“I looked you up. I know who you are, who you were. Captain America’s friend, right? Howling Commandos, best sniper in the US Army.”

“What did you do, Clint? If they find out you’ve been looking for me, they’ll…”

“No, I reckon I’m probably pretty safe right now.”

Words appear on the wall behind Bucky.

_From your actions, I have extrapolated that Sergeant Barnes is present. Captain Rogers has been informed._

Well that gives him a pretty short deadline.

“Right, the important parts: Cap’s alive. He got frozen in ice or something and he’s still alive and punching bad guys. So when you came to me earlier, I went to him. And now he’s on his way here, probably…”

“What?”

“Steve’s alive,” Clint says.

“He can’t be.”

“Pretty sure he’s a superhero. I don’t know how that works but he’s definitely alive.”

“And you told him… about me?” Bucky says.

“Yeah, seemed like a good idea at the time,” Clint says. “Didn’t really think it through.” He waves at the walls surrounding them. “Pretty sure I got arrested, but the Avengers are coming to find you so all’s well that ends well or whatever they say, right?”

“You got arrested?” Bucky looks around them and sees the words on the wall. “What’s going on? First I’m in some kind of tube, and now you’re saying Stevie’s somehow a hundred years old and he’s arrested you?”

“No… I mean, actually, that’s pretty accurate,” Clint says with a shrug after thinking for a moment. Although what was that about a tube? “You were in a tube?”

“My… body,” Bucky says. “My body was in there. I mean...I think it was my body, but I wasn’t inside it. I couldn’t get inside it. But I could _feel_ it. Then… then I _was_ inside my body. I was inside this freezing cold tube and there were these… scientists.”

“Well, that sounds all sorts of nightmarish,” Clint says, aware that he’s not doing a good job of appearing calm.

“And they talked to me in some other language but I understood it - I don’t know how I understood it. It was like I was me but I was stuck inside myself looking out and I couldn’t fucking do anything. And then they took me to this chair - a huge thing like something out of those science fiction flicks you let me watch - and they hooked something around my head. I tried to get the fuck out of there but my body wouldn’t fucking listen and then… then it hurt. I don’t know what they did to me, but they hit me with something and there was pain and then I was back with you again.”

“Right,” Clint says. He has no idea what to make of any of that. “And was that before, or just now?”

“The first time. I don’t know what happened after that, but I was back in there - back in my body, looking out and…” Bucky pauses. “Back in the war there was this day when the artillery hit us. Not dead on, else I’d have died long before I did, but there was a day -” Bucky’s body flickers and he’s wearing a worn army uniform, beaten half to hell and unbuttoned. His face is bloody, bruised and filthy on top of it, his eyes are bloodshot like he’s been crying, and one of his hands clutches something around his neck. Dog tags, maybe? “- the artillery hit right by us and the ground shook like you wouldn’t believe. It was raining dirt and blood and shit right down on top of me and the ground underneath me just… fell apart.

“I was buried for less than ten minutes, they said, when Dum Dum pulled me out, but it felt like forever. Forever, and I couldn’t move because there was ground all over me and I couldn’t call for help or it would have suffocated me. I could just look out this narrow hole to the world above and see the sky, and that’s what it fel-”

The door flies open and Captain America rushes in, looking around the room frantically.

“...Steve?” Bucky says, the name barely loud enough to be a word, even inside Clint’s head.

“Where is he?” Cap asks. “JARVIS said he was here.” He looks around again.

“Steve, you ain’t gonna be able to see me, you idiot,” Bucky says, and Clint passes on the words, making Cap turn wide blue eyes on him.

“Where is he?” he asks. Clint points in the general direction.

“Looking good for a hundred,” Bucky says. Clint relays that as well and Cap stops, looking so very sad that Clint re-evaluates everything he knows about him. His face just… falls.

“Buck…” Cap says, his voice breaking, and Clint doesn’t want to be here for this tearful reunion, but as the interpreter he kind of has to be. “I’m sorry, Buck. I should have gone looking for you. I should have been quicker.”

“And I should have fucking ducked, or maybe I should have learnt to fly… think Stark should’ve made me rocket boots?” Bucky asks, Steve is still peering at thin air, but glances at Clint as he translates.

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t make this not my fault. I’m the only reason you were there in the first place.”

“No,” Bucky says. “You’re an arrogant son of a bitch, y’know that, Stevie?” Clint stares at him and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Just tell him what I damn well said.”

“He’s Captain America,” Clint says a little hollowly.

“What did he say?” Cap asks, and Clint swallows.

“He said you’re an arrogant son of a bitch,” Clint says with a wince. Cap’s mouth flattens.

“Thinking the world revolves around you. I’da died a lot sooner without you, Steve,” Bucky says and Clint repeats. “You’re not why I was there. I’ve got a mind of my own.”

“Buck…” Cap says.

“You gonna take that from me, too?”

“No, I would…” Cap draws in a deep breath. “You were right, Buck, you are alive. You’re… I don’t know how, but you’re alive. Natasha and Tony have been digging into SHIELD, deeper than they’ve been before, and they found Project Fulcrum.”

“The name I saw on the file,” Bucky says.

“You… Hydra’s part of SHIELD. We’re going to go in and get you out, Buck. I swear, you’re going to be okay.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Bucky says quietly. Clint pauses for a second before repeating him.

“You’re alive, Buck.”

“Am I?” Bucky asks.

“Look, just… stay with Clint and we’re coming to get you.”

“You even got a plan?” Bucky asks. “And what about Clint?”

“What about me?” Clint asks, looking at Bucky in astonishment. Bucky stares back at him like he’s missing something.

“What’s going to happen to you? You didn’t do nothing wrong, that’s what about you.”

“I’m pretty sure breaking into Avengers HQ isn’t exactly legal,” Clint says, but Cap holds up a hand.

“I don’t know exactly what Bucky said, but I get the gist,” he says. “And he’s right. You risked a lot coming in here to tell me about him and you did the right thing, even if you didn’t go about it in quite the right way.”

“Listen to that jackass, sounding like he’s all responsible and butter wouldn’t melt,” Bucky says with a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’re free to go, of course,” Cap says. “But I’d… I’d appreciate it if you’d stay for a few days. We have an entire guest floor that’s barely used and you’re…” the only link he has to Bucky, Cap doesn’t say, but Clint can hear it loud and clear.

“Sure,” Clint says, “why not? But I should probably call my brother.”

“What are you going to tell him?” Cap asks.

“That I’m having a sleepover with the Avengers and Tony Stark’s going to paint my toenails while Hulk gossips about boys,” he says sarcastically. Cap just grins.

“I’m sure Tony will paint your toenails if you ask real nice,” he says. “He’s determined to get some sort of scientific proof of ghosts now you’ve shown up, but Hulk’s not really much for gossip, Thor, on the other hand...” His grin is innocent on the surface, but Clint can see the wicked little hint to it underneath and he shoots wide eyes at Bucky who just makes a ‘see what I had to put up with’ gesture.

“Right, yeah, no,” Clint says. “I’ll just tell him that I went out for drinks and got lucky, not to expect me home for a few days.”

“Don’t you have to work?” Bucky asks and Clint shrugs. If he’s maybe hoping that the Avengers will see fit to give him some sort of financial compensation for his help, then he’s not going to say that out loud.

“If you need to work, you can go home; but if you choose to stay here, we can pay you as a consultant,” Cap says.

“What does a consultant earn?” Clint asks and Steve quotes a per hour salary that makes Clint’s eyes almost pop right out of his head. “Seriously? I’m staying.”

Cap grins.

“Good to have you on board.” He turns to empty space again, clearly trying to talk to Bucky, but off by a few degrees. “And Buck… it’s… It’s good to have you back.”

“Say that again when I’ve got a body attached,” Bucky says, but his irritation is obviously put on. “Good to see you too, punk,” he says after another second. Cap beams like the sun coming out from behind a stormcloud and he reaches out to offer Clint his hand.

“Thank you, just… thank you,” he says. Clint shakes the proffered hand a little dumbly, trying to smile, but feeling way too out of place to manage it.

“You’re welcome, I guess,” he says.

He’s seen people get emotional before, it’s sort of inevitable in his job, but this is different. Cap’s got hope and Clint wonders if it’s misplaced or not. Bucky’s different, that’s true enough, but the truth remains that wherever his body is, his spirit is very much not in it, and Clint’s got no clue how you reunite those two things or if it’s even possible. He wonders exactly how bad it’s going to be for Cap if it turns out Bucky really is gone for good, or he’s forever separated: a walking talking shell and the ghost that should be living in it.

His stomach squirms uneasily at the idea.

*

Cap wasn’t lying about the guest floor; it’s like staying in one of those upmarket hotels you only ever see in the movies. The sheets are the softest thing he’s ever felt, but they have that new-clean smell, and when he takes his shoes off his feet sink into the carpet in a way that feels weird and decadent.

Barney isn’t happy about him not coming back for a few days, though when he hears that Clint’s got a job that pays well, he’s a lot more on board with the whole idea. Nevertheless, Clint is careful not to mention exactly what the job is. He knows Barney well enough to know he would not be happy with Clint in the custody of the Avengers, even if they say he’s free to go.

The Avengers themselves are… interesting. Clint has never really ever thought of them as people before, more like action figures and glossy magazine covers, but they _are_ people. They can be just as annoying and weird as everyone else.

Tony Stark turns up at his door less than three hours after he accepts the offer of a room (more like an entire apartment) and Clint gathers that this is as long as the others were able to hold him off for.

“I don’t like magic,” he announces without introducing himself, walking in with barely a nod to Clint.

“Uh, okay?” Clint says, not sure how this conversation is going to go, because Clint’s entire schtick is kind of magical.

“I don’t like magic because people use it as an excuse to be lazy,” he says, whirling round to focus his gaze on Clint. He doesn’t look like his magazine covers right now, hair fluffed up and all over the place, eyes a bit manic. “They say ‘how does that work?’ ‘Oh, it’s magic’ and then they give up, when there has to be an explanation. It’s just that everyone else is too dumb to work it out.”

“Who are you calling dumb?” Bucky asks, standing behind Tony’s shoulder, arms crossed. “It’s a nice set up you got here, I’ll give you that, and I like JARVIS well enough, but maybe you oughta be nicer to your guests?” Clint stifles a smirk, but Tony sees it immediately and points an accusing finger at him.

“He said something, didn’t he? Barnes? Barnes, are you here?” He glares into every corner of the room, as though Bucky might be hiding there rather than standing right next to him. “You say ghosts are real, we manage to independently verify things you’ve said as stuff that only Bucky Barnes could know, ergo something beyond what we currently deem as possible is happening here,” Tony says, waving his hands around. “You say ghosts. It’s a hypothesis.”

“It’s real,” Clint says.

“Or you’re just a very good fake,” Tony says, “who has another way of accessing that information. But, as you’ve presented a hypothesis, we have to test the hypothesis; that’s what _science_ is. You don’t just accept things and say, ‘This is magic,’ and then merrily go on with your life. Do you know what it means if ghosts are real?”

“I’m not a crazy person?” Clint suggests.

“That doesn’t matter. Think bigger,” Tony tells him with a careless wave of his hand. “It means that the soul is a quantifiable, measurable thing. Made up of energy, most likely, but a kind of energy or particle we have never come across before. A whole new world of science that-”

There’s a knock at Clint’s door.

“Ignore that,” Tony says, coming right up to Clint’s shoulder. “I’ve had JARVIS scanning for any signs of Barnes in your presence whenever you talk to him and I’m running out of tests. I need to see your _brain_.”

“Tony, I know you’re in there,” Cap’s voice says from outside. “We agreed you were going to leave Clint alone.”

“ _You_ agreed I was going to leave Clint alone, I agreed that science is more important.”

“I’m not sure I want you to go rooting around inside my head,” Clint says, feeling a little sick at the idea.

“Non-invasive!” Tony says hurriedly, “I’m not going to cut you open, just some scans: an EEG, a few sensors, just brain waves, that’s all.”

“I don’t-”

“Tony,” Cap says outside. “Clint, could you let me in? I’ll make sure he doesn’t bother you again.”

Tony glares at the door then leans in really close to Clint, his face falling into something more serious.

“He doesn’t understand,” he says. “World’s greatest strategist, my ass. It’s all very well going and getting Barnes his body back, but we need to know how to get him back into it.” He looks at Clint and Clint looks back, understanding now that Tony’s already thinking about the next problem, the same one that had occurred to Clint himself.

He pulls away and goes over to open the door and let Cap come in, half-falling across the threshold. As Cap stands up, Clint holds out a hand to Tony.

“Okay,” he says. “You can do your tests. But first we have to get Bucky his body back, okay? After that’s done, you can do all the tests you want.”

“Clint, you don’t have to-” Cap starts, right as Bucky’s opening his mouth to protest, but Tony walks swiftly over to him and shakes his hand firmly, his eyes knowing.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Tony,” Cap says again, a bit like a stuck record.

“For science, Spangles!” Tony declares and sweeps right out of the room.

In his wake, they all stand there awkwardly, looking at each other. Or, Bucky and Clint look between each other and Cap, but Cap just looks at Clint.

“Uh,” Captain America says, which is probably the least Captain America thing he’s done so far. “I know it’s not really fair to you, but… I was wondering if I could speak to Buck?” He looks at Clint earnestly, which is a whole new level of awkward, because Captain America is asking him for help.

“Yeah, sure. You know I usually charge twenty bucks an hour, right?”

“Oh, right!” Cap actually reaches into his pocket to get his wallet and Clint’s eyes grow wide as saucers as he glances towards Bucky in panic.

“I didn’t… I mean I do… but you’ve already got me on retainer, right? I’m not… shit, you don’t have to pay me to…” he says. Barney would kill him for refusing money but he’s not going to extort Captain America. He quite likes not being in jail, thank you very much.

“If you’re sure,” Cap says, looking up. He’s already got two ten dollar bills between his fingers.

“I’m sure,” Clint says, although his heart sinks a little as he sees that money going back into the wallet. Barney’s got a point when he says life is better when you know where your next meal is coming from.

“So, whaddya wanna talk about, Stevie?” Bucky asks.

Clint repeats his words and starts one of the weirdest conversations of his life.

He’s been doing this for years, so you’d think he’d have got over the sting of embarrassment at being part of people’s private conversations with their loved ones, but before it was always the same sort of things and there was always an air of ‘goodbye’ to things, not to mention the ghosts were usually pretty rubbish conversationalists, with only enough of themselves left in them to have a few basic emotions and hazy memories. Bucky is the opposite of that.

And the fact that it’s Captain America who looks like he’s about to start crying on Clint’s sofa is a new one.

“Clint, can you…?” Bucky says. “Can you like, pat him on the shoulder?” Clint knows his eyebrows go right up but he leans out and lays a hand against Captain America’s shoulder tentatively, and he watches as Bucky’s hand goes over his and settles… _into_ him.

“Is this okay?” Bucky asks, and Clint repeats his words automatically. “I wasn’t talking to him, dumbass. I was talking to you,” Bucky says. “Last time someone like me got their hands in you it wasn’t exactly pretty.”

“I’m good,” Clint says, and he’s vaguely aware that Cap is looking at him in bemusement, but his mind’s a bit more concerned with the sensation in his hand which is almost like he feels Bucky. It’s like the sensation when you think there’s a bug crawling on you but it turns out there’s nothing there. He looks at where Bucky’s wrist disappears into his hand, where their fingers don’t quite line up and he can just see a hint of pale knuckles between his own fingers.

He squeezes slightly, knowing he’s really squeezing Cap’s shoulder, but feeling a little like, maybe, he and Bucky are sort of holding hands.

Cap clears his throat and Clint pulls his hand back in a flash.

“Sorry… he asked me to?” he says hopefully. Cap smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “He used to do that.”

“And apparently I’ll do it again,” Bucky says. “You need to brighten up, you chump.” Clint winces, but repeats those words, too. “Just fucking look at us. We made it to the future and maybe I’m a little… see through right now, but we’re gonna fix that.”

Clint forces himself to say the words, although his throat is tight around them.

“Yeah,” Cap says, a little shaky. “We’re gonna be good.”

“We’re gonna be better than good,” Bucky promises and, although Clint can see the uncertainty on his face, he does his best to look completely sure as he repeats Bucky’s words. “Now, do you remember that bakery round the corner, did the best damn bagels in Brooklyn?”

“Best bagels in the whole fucking world, Buck,” Cap says, his voice going thick and old-fashionedy, like a black and white movie. And the conversation moves on, with Clint as this weird voyeur in the middle of it.

*

Cap comes back at least once a day to talk to Bucky, but also to Clint, though that’s probably more out of politeness because he seems that sort. He even convinces Clint to call him Steve at one point, which is kind of weird, but Clint does his best to manage it because every time he slips up Bucky mocks him for it.

Sometimes Bucky isn’t there, flickered and gone, leaving Clint on his own in the hotel suite he’s been given. He does the tour, or as much of it as JARVIS will let him. Some doors are blocked off - _That is the armoury, Mr Barton_ and _Access to sir’s workshop is by appointment only_. He spends the rest of his time going through the cupboards to marvel at the things that billionaires think are ‘the basics’. He also takes several days to work out how to use the coffee machine to just make a plain black coffee, as it seems convinced he wants a cappuccino, or a mocha, or a triple super double caramel macchiccino or whatever.

“You’re getting better at that,” Black Widow says, appearing beside him in the kitchen. She signs her words as she says them. “Is Barnes around?”

“Not right now,” Clint says, trying not to look too worried by that, but he can tell from the slight narrowing of her eyes that it doesn’t work. “Can I help you?”

“We’re living in the same building, I thought it might be nice to get to know one another,” she says. Her smile is soft, but Clint knows better than that. The softness is like the thin layer of padding in a poorly upholstered chair. There’s a spring waiting underneath to jump out and stab you in the ass. He just hums. “And I wanted to apologise for the subterfuge I used before.”

“Lady,” Clint says, drawing in a deep breath, “we both know you aren’t sorry for anything.”

“That’s not true,” she responds, although her face stays carefully blank. “I’m sure we both have things in our past we regret… Hawkeye.”

“Thought you’d already done the background check on me.” Clint says, refusing to be impressed that she managed to dig into his messy past.

“I had, I just didn’t take into account that maybe you weren’t…”

“A fraud?” Clint suggests.

“An opportunist,” she corrects.

“Oh, I’m definitely an opportunist,” Clint says.

“No, your brother’s an opportunist, you are less pragmatic about things,” she tells him, like she’s read the label on the inside of his head. “I talked to Mr Halloway.” It takes Clint a second to place the name as the guy with the daughter who’d fucked things up and lead to this whole Bucky thing in the first place.

“Yeah, he was a blast,” he says. “Did he tell you I attacked him?”

“No, he seemed concerned that you might have told me lies about his daughter,” she says. 

“Really?” Clint says, deciding that short sentences are probably his best bet right now.

“So I looked into what lies you could possibly have been telling,” she says. “The police found the truth very interesting.”

This, Clint knows, is the convincer. He’s grifted enough to know one when he sees one. She’s good, so she must be letting him know. This is his little reward so he’ll trust her: offering up Halloway’s head on a platter.

“What do you really want?” he asks, sitting on one of the spinny stools at the breakfast bar and turning it round to face her, trying not to let his childish glee at _spinning_ show on his face (Tony Stark’s interior decorator deserves a raise, that’s all he’s saying).

She sits next to him, her face serious, her eyes vulnerable, although he can’t tell if that’s honest vulnerability or just another mask.

“You see the dead,” she says.

“Yep, pretty much established that one,” he agrees, taking an obnoxious slurp of his coffee and inwardly rejoicing as she wrinkles her nose at the sound. “What about it?”

“What are they… like?” she asks.

“Uh… they’re just sort of there, I guess,” Clint says. “They don’t really seem to notice us most of the time.”

“Apart from when you light the candle,” she says.

“Yeah, apart from then,” he agrees. “Don’t know how that works, although the thing with… Halloway gave me a clue. It was like they were pulling my soul out of my chest. But yeah, when I light the candle, it’s like they wake up a bit. They’re still not really real, but they can remember who they were…” He pauses. “Or maybe they are a memory of who they were, just zoomed in.”

“Are there any here right now?” she asks. Clint shakes his head. “You’re sure.”

“Yep,” he says. She looks conflicted for a moment.

“And when you light the candle… how do you make the right ghosts come to you?”

“Blood or some shit,” Clint shrugs. “I don’t know how it works. Don’t think the guy who taught me knew either, but it works, so I don’t need to ask questions, y’know?” She hums, her eyes clearly assessing him.

“Does it only work if you do it, or…”

“You got some dead people you want to talk to?” he asks. She blinks twice before her face goes carefully blank again.

“The dead are gone,” she says.

“Yeah, they are,” Clint agrees. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from being able to see them, it’s that they’re better off gone.”

“People talk about… unfinished business,” she says.

“Nope, that’s not the dead. The living are the ones with the unfinished business,” Clint says. “The dead only care when I wake them up, and they don’t get any closure or whatever bullshit people talk about because they’re echoes. Every time they wake up they’re in the same moment, the same feelings.”

“Then why do you wake them?”

“Because suckers are willing to pay for it,” Clint says with a shrug.

“That’s not true,” she says, like she’s a human lie detector. Clint glares at her. “I spoke to Ethel Granger as well.”

“Yeah, maybe sometimes I do it because the living are the ones who need the closure,” he says, trying not to feel like she’s seeing right inside him. “Is that what you need?”

“No,” she says, standing up, her fingers trailing on the counter top with a ‘tap tap tap’. “That’s not something I’m looking for.”

She pauses at the door to look back at him and she seems a little smaller than usual.

“Thank you,” she says, and then she’s gone. Clint sips his coffee, which is lukewarm at best, and shakes his head. He doesn’t understand superheroes.

*

Thor bursts in one day, making Clint spill his coffee all over the sweatpants he’s wearing as he jumps in surprise.

He blows through the room like the storms he supposedly controls, leaving Clint with the sense of having just met a very large, very enthusiastic golden retriever, and convinces Clint that he should play The Mario Kart! with him. It takes Clint approximately ten minutes, and Bucky about four going by his laughter, to tell that Thor is trolling him, that he damn well knows how to play and he’s phenomenally good at it.

“Ah, he’s found another victim, then?” a voice asks from the doorway, as Clint takes what he thinks is a shortcut but which seems to be taking him onto a different track completely. He glances over to see Black Widow standing in the doorway, looking entirely too normal for someone who could strangle him with her thighs and make him like it.

“Looks like,” Clint says. “Do they have Mario Kart tournaments on Asgard or something?”

“I have considered bringing it back to begin such a revel,” Thor says, dodging a shell with terrifying reflexes. “The warriors of Asgard would enjoy pitting their wits against the small plumber with the big heart.”

Clint side-eyes him, uncertain whether the guy is being serious or not. Thor’s face gives nothing away so Clint looks over to Black Widow, who just shrugs.

“Is Barnes here?” she asks.

“Right over here,” Bucky says.

“He’s on the sofa,” Clint says, jerking his head in the rough direction, although his eyes are still glued to the screen. His Bowser seems to be driving upside down through some sort of glowing cave complex and he keeps having to dodge stalactites. He also doesn’t appear to be on the map in the corner of the screen.

“We’ve got a lead on Project Fulcrum,” Black Widow says, her eyes are on Clint though he has the distinct feeling that her attention is on the sofa behind him. “Thor?”

“Wait, what?” Bucky says, standing up from the sofa. He’s got the long hair again; it’s been appearing more frequently recently and he’s been getting quieter every time he disappears and comes back. Clint’s trying not to worry. Captain America’s not going to let anything happen to him if he can help it. 

Clint’s still worried, though.

“Of course, Natasha!” Thor says, or booms, setting down his handset just as his Yoshi crosses the line on his tiny motorbike. “Farewell, friend Clint!” he says with a hearty pat to Clint’s shoulder that stings as it lands. “It is an honour to have met a seer such as yourself!”

And then they’re gone.

“Where are they even going?” Bucky asks, his hands flexing into fists and then flicking out again. “They’re just… gone? Like that.”

“I guess,” Clint says. Bucky looks over at him. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay, right? They’re the Avengers, this is kinda what they do. Well, fighting aliens is what they do, but when there are no aliens around I guess they rescue people.”

“I just…” Bucky looks down at his hands which are filthy with dirt and blood. He’s got the World War Two uniform on again, the one that’s seen the worst days of the war. “I’m no fucking use like this, am I?”

“If you weren’t here, I’d be going crazy on my own, so…” Clint says with a shrug.

“I can’t watch Steve’s back. I can’t punch the guys who are holding me captive in the face, I can’t choose when I go and when I stay, I can’t talk to anyone but you, and I can’t…” He crosses right over to Clint so they’re standing face to face. “I can’t touch anything.”

They haven’t mentioned what happened before Bucky left that first time, when he walked away of his own volition, but it’s been hanging there in the back of Clint’s mind. Bucky had left because he thought staying wasn’t fair to Clint, but if he gets his body back…

Clint hasn’t asked, because he knows that it’s one thing to like a person when they’re all you have in the world, but it's another when you’ve got 7 billion other options. He’s been in that situation, maybe not romantically but in a lot of other ways. He’s not going to hold Bucky to any decisions he makes as a ghost. Even the church recognises that death is a hard line on consent, after all. Clint’s not going to presume, but Bucky’s bringing his hand up to Clint’s face again and Clint doesn’t exactly want to pull back. He’s not alive again yet, after all.

Bucky leans in and Clint imagines that he feels the pressure of lips touching his, but there’s nothing but a slight chill in the air.

“Can’t wait ‘til I can kiss you for real,” Bucky says. Clint knows his breath catches, can feel his mouth fall open slightly, because after weeks of not talking about it they’re just going to dive straight in apparently.

“Sounds good,” he says, which is the lamest response to that line anyone has ever given.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “I’d have moments like this during the war, y’know. ‘Hurry up and wait.’ When you couldn’t do anything but you knew people were dying, and you were stuck there twiddling your thumbs while the world burned to hell and back.”

“Right,” Clint says, not sure where this is going.

“Gabe used to call it the Fight or Fuck Mood,” Bucky says, and he speaks the words with intent. Clint’s mouth goes dry. “I wish I could fucking touch you right now.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, his hand reaching out to clutch at nothing but air. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“When I-” Bucky starts, but his words are cut off as the lights in the room turn red. Words appear on the wall directly in front of Clint.

_Mr Barton I have registered an intruder alert. My systems are under attack. I recommend y̸̲̦͈̜̜̑̐̌̅o̴̥̼̦̺͔͠͠ư̷̯͆̍̃ head t̵͔̊̈͝o̷̟̙̪̼͘ ̵͚̩̅̾͂̚̚teh sbhfś̶͓͚̜͍͆͘p̵̢͙̪̱͌̉̈́͝ͅp̶̹̺̘̣̥̐̾͛͗͒n̶̤̒͊̋ immị̶̋n̶̹͉̘̫̹̓h̶̨̯̰͙͋̈́͌ͅz̸̢̮̳̾͘͜ǹ̵̫̰̉v̵̛̭͚̜̅̐̇k̵̟̤̓̉̐̀-̷̟͍̰̈́̈́̉͜ ̶̨̨͝ͅj̵̜̅ḵ̷̺͚̃-̷̪̲͕̌̌̍͜͜͝-̷̛͔̞͙̊̈́!̷̫͑͒̓ơ̵̼̩͉̯͂̋͝)̷̞̹̌̔͊̓̾*̵̩̤̳̋̚͜%̴̧̦̲͒̐̃̓̕4̷̞͕̱̾̾̇b̶̳͊͋%̷̩̰̮̘͋͝$̷̦̫̱̩̍̀͘-̷̰̭̐̿̕͘͜-̵͖̩̯͍̜̋̓̀͠͝ ----------_

The letters are twisting and shifting, fuzzy with static and pixellation, and Clint stares at them, desperately trying to work out where JARVIS had wanted him to go.

“Right…” he says. “So we’re under attack…”

Clint has seen _Die Hard_ , okay. And he’s feeling distinctly like Bruce Willis in Nakatomi Plaza right now.

He needs to get to the armoury. That’s what he needs to do. He can shoot, but he hasn’t seen his bow since he ditched it in his attempt to get into the tower. After he’d gone back to find it, there’d just been an empty space.

He has a suspicion that Natasha knows exactly where it is, but it’s not like she’s telling him, and JARVIS is silent on the matter. Trust is a hard won commodity. 

If he can’t have his bow, the next best thing is a gun, and the best place to get a gun is the armoury. He knows where it is but - he looks up to the air vent above him - it’s probably not a good idea to take the corridor. He grins like a madman, praying that Tony’s been too busy worrying about Project Fulcrum to bother with redoing his entire vent system.

“What are you thinking?” Bucky asks him.

“Yippee ki yay, motherfucker!”

*

The vents are like Clint remembers them, just as tight and difficult to navigate as before, and he realises about half a minute in that he only has a vague idea of where he’s going. There’s no way to turn round though, so he guesses he’ll just have to vent crawl for now. It’s a good thing he’s not claustrophobic, that’s for damn sure.

The lights shining up through the vents are still red and JARVIS is eerily silent. It’s not that the AI talks a lot, but he’s got a definite presence, so it’s noticeable that he’s gone. Clint’s world is tight and dark and red, and he can feel his heartbeat in his teeth, that’s how tense he is. Anyone who’s showing up to Avengers Tower unannounced and can shut JARVIS down is going to be a bad guy. And if they’re a bad guy looking for the Avengers, they’re probably going to be out of Clint’s league. But his only other option is rolling over and playing dead, which isn’t really his thing.

He knows where the armoury is, he just doesn’t know how to get there via vent.

“Clint, what the fuck are you doing?” Bucky says, appearing in front of him, half in, half out of the vent. Sometimes Clint forgets he’s a ghost, but that’s not really possible when he’s busy defying the laws of physics.

“Getting weapons,” he hisses.

“You should be hiding,” Bucky tells him.

“Yeah, I’ll hide when I have weapons,” he replies. He doesn’t want to crawl through Bucky’s head, that feels rude, but he can’t go backwards. Bucky doesn’t seem inclined to move though, so Clint just… goes forwards, hoping that his insides don’t look too gross. He’s never going to ask if that’s how it works, but it makes a disgusting sort of sense.

“JARVIS probably sent out an alert. The others will be coming back soon,” Bucky says and sure, that makes sense too, but Clint can’t just hide. These guys have put him up, this is sort of his temporary home, and you don’t just let people invade your friends’ houses.

He looks down the next vent and sees a room he doesn’t recognise. He wonders if he’s been turned around somewhere. He took a right, then a left, then another right. Or was that straight on? It might have been a left.

As he’s trying to puzzle out the directions, there’s a vibration in the metal underneath him. He can’t hear a thing, naturally, but he can feel it and it’s getting stronger. He freezes in place.

Clint has no idea what it could be. The vibration’s constant, rather than the rhythm of footsteps or of someone else crawling through the vents. Mechanical, perhaps. It’s possible Tony wasn’t quite as distracted by rescuing Bucky as Clint thought he was. Perhaps he did have time to implement some kind of vent security system.

Clint contemplates poison gas and laser grids for a long, upsetting moment. He contemplates his own rather messy life and how he probably hasn’t done that much worth doing. He wonders how long it will take the Avengers to find his body. Not that long, he hopes. He just hopes Barney knows enough to leave it alone.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

That’s not a good sign. Especially not when there definitely wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel two seconds ago. And it’s getting brighter, along with that vibration getting stronger. Whatever Tony put in the vents is pretty much here now. Clint can’t move fast enough to get away.

So maybe the vents were a bad idea. You never know until you try, right?

The source of the light comes into view and turns towards him, one bright circle of white that makes him cover his eyes and brace for repulsors to the face, or whatever Tony has decided is suitable punishment for vent-crawlers, but nothing comes.

“Is that a robot?” Bucky asks, and Clint looks again. The light has dimmed a little and he can see a robot trundling towards him on little caterpillar tracks. It looks a little like Wall-E might look if he were made by a teenage geek and crossed with a tank.

It has several rotating rings on top of it. One looks like a camera, which swivels towards him, elongating as it zooms in on Clint’s face. Below that is the light, then another two which have what appear to be guns attached.

Tony created vent patrolling robots. Great. Wonderful.

“Uh, hi,” Clint says. “I’m a friend?”

“Holy shit, it’s a robot,” Bucky says. “Hey, little guy! You can’t see me, but…” He reaches one hand towards the robot and it freezes, its eye wheel spinning around a little frantically like it’s trying to see something that isn’t there. Like it’s trying to see _Bucky_.

“That’s just Bucky,” Clint says. “He’s invisible, but he’s good.”

The eye swings back to Clint and there’s a distinct trill from the bot that echoes a bit in the vent.

“Uh, please don’t shoot,” Clint says. “I swear we’re not the intruders! Not this time, anyway. I was just trying to find the armoury.”

The bot rolls back and forth for a second and makes a string of beeping, trilling sounds before beeping once more and then spinning round to start moving. It gets about a metre away before it swings its light and its camera round to Clint again and makes a disgruntled beep. Clint hadn’t even been aware beeps could be disgruntled.

“I think it wants us to follow it,” Bucky says. Clint can see a smile on his face, although he’s flickering like an old movie image again. “Who’da thought I’d live to see robots?” he says with a shake of his head.

“Are you okay?” Clint whispers to him and Bucky looks at him in confusion, his face flickering between every version of him Clint has ever seen, like one of those flickbooks.

“I’m fine,” Bucky says. “I feel stronger than usual, actually.”

Clint doesn’t know if that should worry him or not, but he decides to drop it. If Bucky says he’s fine, then he’s probably fine. They’ve got bigger problems right now anyway.

The little bot bleeps again and Clint starts to follow it.

It seems a little irritated by how slowly Clint moves, which isn’t exactly fair as not everyone here was specifically designed to navigate ceiling vents, but whenever it gets too far ahead it rolls back and nudges him. Clint isn’t sure whether to take that as encouragement or annoyance, but it seems happy enough.

The vents go sharply down at one point and Clint worries the little robot’s going to fall, but its treads must be magnetised or something because it just tips over and starts crawling down the side of the tunnel. He’s got to admit that he’s a little impressed, but he’s never going to tell Tony that.

Clint wedges himself into the downwards section, sacrificing comfort for speed and earning some friction burns on his arms, but makes it to the bottom otherwise unharmed apart from some bruises on his knees and forearms. He drops into the tunnel below as lightly as he can.

“This ain’t the best place I’ve ever been on a date,” Bucky says from behind him. “At least the view’s good.” Clint’s about to ask what view, but then he remembers Bucky’s right behind him. He wiggles his ass a little, swallowing down the laugh he feels bubbling up his throat. He doesn’t know how many people have broken into the Tower, he needs to be as quiet as possible now.

They follow the robot down some more narrow passages until they come to another vent, lit up as red as all the others, and the robot burbles again. A little tool comes out of it and it starts unscrewing the vent cover. It’s a useful little guy to have with you, it seems.

The room below them is the armoury and Clint drops down into it like a cat, landing on the balls of his feet and absorbing the impact through his knees.

The robot flashes its light at him and then starts to roll out of the vent too. In alarm, Clint reaches out to grab it, startled at how much it weighs before setting it on the ground.

“You wanna help, huh?” he asks, patting it on what he thinks is the closest approximation to its head. Its eye camera spins round a couple of times as it rolls around in a three point turn. Clint’s going to take that as excitement.

Stencilled on its side are five letters.

“VESP- A,” he says, crouching down. “Nice to meet you, Vespa. Thanks for getting us out of there.”

He turns to grin at Bucky, who must be falling over himself because the bot has a name, only to find empty space. Clint looks up into the vent but there’s nothing there. He turns in a slow circle, looking all around the room, but there's no ghost to be seen.

“Bucky?” he asks the walls of weapons but, strangely enough, they don’t reply.

Right, Bucky’s disappeared before. It’s probably something to do with the Avengers. They went after his body; maybe there’s some connection between that and Bucky disappearing, and now he’s with them. That’s not a big deal, and it’s not like Bucky would have been able to do anything anyway, the guy’s incorporeal. It’s fine.

And Clint’s got VESP-A. So he’s not alone, not really.

The armoury is… not what he’d expected. There’s a small collection of guns, and a whole lot of other stuff that looks like it walked straight out of a science fiction movie, and a stack of sleek black cases that could contain anything. Clint wouldn’t even know where to begin with most of it.

He grabs one of the guns but then realises it doesn’t have any ammunition because of course the Avengers practise safe gun ownership.

Clint looks around desperately and starts opening cases. He’s pretty sure the first one has a bomb in it. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He takes a deep breath but it doesn’t do anything to calm him down.

VESP-A nudges one box towards him and he turns to open it because why not. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, another bomb perhaps, but inside are two of Black Widow’s bracelets. He… sort of knows how they work? He’s seen her use them on TV enough over the past couple of years. There’s a flick of the wrist, or something like that.

He slides them onto his wrists and they expand to fit, although her wrists must be half the size of his. As they slip into place, he feels them vibrate against his skin and the end of each little bullet shaped section lights up blue. 

Huh…

He raises his hand towards the wall and tries to mimic the gesture he’s seen Black Widow make to fire them.

A dart flies out and hits the wall, sparking.

Not exactly his usual weapon of choice, but he can work with this.

He grabs a couple of wicked looking knives off the wall as well, slipping them into his belt. As he’s doing so, VESP-A turns to look at the door and starts to roll back and forth in agitation.

Clint crouches down, putting a finger to his lips and hoping that Stark designed his robots with a knowledge of hand signals. VESP-A’s light blinks on and off.

Clint’s hearing won’t make out anything beyond the armoury door, that’s for sure, so he’s got to trust his new robot friend. Clint pats her and walks over to the door as calmly as he can, heart thudding in his chest and hands surprisingly clammy. Then he flattens himself against the wall next to the door.

VESP-A’s two guns swivel to aim towards the door.

So much for hiding, he thinks as he draws one of the knives.

Clint’s never hated his spotty hearing as much as at this moment. Not knowing when something’s going to happen, not even knowing if it’s _going_ to happen, but aware that it _could_ happen at any moment. He has no clues to go on beyond VESP-A’s aggressive pose and the tension in the air. He adjusts the knife in his hand. It’s been a long time since he’s been in any sort of fight. Talking to ghosts might not be a respectable career but it rarely comes with violence. He’s occasionally had to dodge the fists of a few angry relatives who are convinced he’s scamming their grandma, but mostly it’s a quiet sort of job.

He still remembers what life was like when it wasn’t quiet though, and he’s been keeping himself in shape as best he can. He’s just got to hope his skills are up to the challenge.

He keeps his eyes open staring at the edge of the door right next to him, the muscles of his arms loaded on a hair trigger. His vision blurs until he remembers to blink; his chest aches until he remembers to breathe.

Bucky flickers into life again and Clint nearly stabs him for all the good that would do. He doesn’t stop flickering though, in and out and in again.

“Clint… you’ve gotta run…” he says, his eyes wide as his body starts to change again, limb by limb taking on a new appearance… “It’.s.. T..he… intru… der… it’s… it’s…” He flickers again and suddenly he’s all different; one arm shines like metal, his body is encased in black, his mouth muzzled by a mask, his eyes ringed with darkness as long, dark hair falls over them. He’s bigger, bulkier than before.

“It’s me,” Bucky says, his voice low.

That’s when the door explodes inwards. Clint looks to the side to see a foot in a heavy boot sticking through, like kicking a heavily armoured door off its hinges was barely any effort.

Clint stabs at the leg and darts back as a metal hand swings into view towards him. It goes right over his head and he looks past it to see familiar eyes staring back at him, only fixed in an unfamiliar expression of aggression.

“What the fuck?” he says, jumping as the non-metal hand of Bucky’s body swipes out with a wicked looking Bowie knife.

“It’s me!” Bucky says from behind him again.

“I can fucking see that!” Clint shouts, rolling away from the angry terminator that Bucky has apparently become without his soul. His knife is sticking out of Bucky’s thigh in an ugly sort of way, and Clint wants to apologise - except he needs to save all his breath because Bucky’s gained a hundred pounds of pure muscle and a metric fuckton of pure rage, it seems. Clint doesn’t want to hurt him - he glances at the knife sticking out of Bucky’s leg - more than he has already. That might make things tricky.

But he moves too slowly and the metal hand grabs him by the back of his neck, lifting Clint easily as he kicks his feet into air, trying to find _something_ to push back against. He catches a glimpse of Bucky, who looks identical to the person holding him, except his eyes are big and wide and terrified, and the fact that he’s still flickering all over like a candle flame.

“I’m… g...onna t...ry some...thing,” Bucky says, his words stuttering as he flashes in and out of existence.

“Sooner would be better,” Clint says through gritted teeth. The grip of metal on his neck is getting tighter. He’s not sure how much force it takes to break the human neck but he has a feeling that finding out first hand will be unpleasant.

Bucky’s ghost… soul… spirit - the part that makes him Bucky, whatever the best name for that might be - runs past him, and Clint can’t see what happens next but he feels the metal hand release him and he collapses to the floor, legs shaking underneath him.

VESP-A, who had been hit by the door, finally makes her way out from beneath the metal, seemingly unharmed, and Clint almost cheers. As the little robot rolls forwards, Clint turns around to see what Bucky’s plan was.

Bucky’s spirit is nowhere to be seen. All there is is his body, convulsing on the floor. VESP-A begins to aim a weapon at him but Clint stops her with a wave of his hand.

“We can’t hurt him,” he says. VESP-A manages to convey a great deal of indignation for a small robot whose only communication is limited to beeps, but her weapon drops a little.

“Bucky?” Clint says, uncertain. There’s no response other than a wordless roar that doesn’t sound particularly friendly. Clint pushes himself to his feet, his thigh muscles quaking with the effort, and aims his arm towards Bucky’s body, Natasha’s bracelets ready to go. “Bucky?” he tries again. Bucky’s body is still convulsing on the ground, his hands clutching at his head and his eyes clenched shut. It looks painful, unnatural, like he’s vibrating around the edges.

As he watches, every muscle in Bucky’s body straightens at once in one violent spasm, and sticks there, frozen for a long moment. Then there’s a blur of movement as Bucky-the-ghost is expelled from Bucky-the-terrifying-intruder to lie motionless on the ground.

Ghosts shouldn’t be able to pass out, should they? He looks more see-through than usual, like he’s fading, and Clint wants to go over to him but Bucky’s body is pushing itself to its feet.

Clint fires three of the widow’s bites into him before he can stand and Bucky’s body jerks into convulsions again, then lies still, twitching.

Clint stands, unable to properly process what he is seeing for a second, his mind all messed up with ‘did I just kill Bucky?’ and ‘what the fuck is going on?’ and ‘holy shit, I’m not dead’. But then his knees crumple again and he manages to drag himself over to Bucky’s ghost, so translucent he might as well not even be there.

He can’t really hear what he’s saying to himself - just a rush of noise in his ears and his own frantic pulse, more physical than audible - but he imagines that it’s swear words and insults and begging.

VESP-A rolls over to where he is, almost rolling right into Bucky’s ghost-form, but stopping just in time.

“I don’t know what to do,” Clint realises he’s saying. “I don’t know what to do!”

He casts a quick look over to Bucky’s body but it’s still down, and he forces himself to breathe. He’s the only one who can see Bucky, so it’s got to be him, then. It’s got to be him.

Clint thinks desperately back to what he knows about ghosts but he never bothered to try to work out the hows or whys. He’d done some research back when he was a teenager, but all he’d found was pseudo-science and frauds. He’s got to know something, though. Bucky’s here. _All_ of Bucky is here for the first time, and if Clint can just keep all of him alive a little longer then someone will figure out a way to stick Bucky back together and everything will be _fine._ So he just needs to come up with something.

He thinks about ghosts. He thinks about what he’s seen them do and how they react to things. He remembers meeting Bucky for the first time, and he remembers the feeling of fingers in his chest, grabbing at something deep inside him like they were starving for it. But Bucky’s never been able to touch him like that…

Candle… he needs a candle…

No. He needs fire and blood. That’s all he needs. 

He rips off his shirt, barely hesitating before he grabs a knife and cuts a slice over his palm. Then he soaks the cloth in his blood, trying to get as much of it on there as possible, wincing at the pain as he squeezes at his hand.

He reaches into his pocket, but there’s no lighter there. He hasn’t needed to carry it since he came to the Tower and stopped doing rituals every day.

He turns to VESP-A.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a light,” he says. The robot whirrs for a minute, then turns one of her weapons around to let out a stream of flame. He blinks. Somehow he hadn’t been expecting ‘flamethrower’. “That’ll work.” he says. “Just a quick blast.”

Clint dangles his shirt into the flame and drops it to the metal floor as soon as it catches. He turns hopefully back to Bucky, but there’s no change.

“Now what?” he asks, but the only response is VESP-A beeping curiously at him. “I’m fine,” he says. The ghosts before had reached right into him but Bucky can hardly do that when he’s lying there.

“I can’t… shit…” He reaches out. “I hope this works,” he says and pushes his own hand into Bucky’s.

He can feel the tug as their edges overlap and Clint almost sobs in relief. He raises his other hand and places it, still bleeding, onto Bucky’s chest where his heart would be if he weren’t… a ghost.

The jolt of energy being pulled from him is immediate and strong.

“That’s right, don’t you fucking die,” Clint says. “Not for real this time, not for good. You can’t kiss me if you’re dead, you dick.”

Colour is flowing into Bucky in twisting bright lines, like ink leaking into water, filling him up. Clint watches it swirl in hypnotic patterns, twisting and billowing and merging into each other as his eyes start to lose focus.

The last thing he’s aware of as he falls forwards is VESP-A nudging urgently at his side and half a dozen or more translucent shapes emerging from the walls around him.

“Aw shit,” he says quietly. “I forgot the fucking circle.”

*

Beep

Beep

Beep

“-der[...] wha[...] to him?”

“-rton [...] soul to your [...]riend [...]ingly also[...]er spiri[...]resulting[...]ious[...]taphysi[...]jury”

“[...]wake up?”

“[...]ow [...]ssible[...]-”

  
  


*

Beep

Beep

Beep

“...ke up, you damned idiot! They’re trying to put me back in… me… They’ve got this guy, wears a cape. Says he knows how this stuff works and sometimes he can see me. He’s a dick, though, and he’s got Stark’s back right up. But I don’t want to do it until you’re awake, in case… Just wake up. You can’t die for me. I ain’t been alive right since 1944 and you’ve seen what they made me into… I sure as hell ain’t wor…”

*

“...int [...]ter wake up [...] Buc[...]eryone cra[...] Says he won’t[...] Strange is[...]tience[...]nd [...]eed to thank…”

  
  


*

“Mr Barton, I need you to listen to me. The trauma your soul suffered was dramatic, but it has all but healed. The only thing holding you back right now is you. Wake up, Mr Barton. 

“Wake up.”

*

Clint wakes up screaming. He can feel it again, all the fingers tearing into him; reaching inside, freezing cold and hungry. He flails, trying to beat them away, but they keep coming back and back again, holding him down.

No.

The hands on his arms are warm, solid. Touching his skin, not reaching inside him. His eyes open wide to look around and he sees a face - familiar, worried - under blonde hair.

“Cap?” he asks, his throat sore, his voice cracked and rough.

“Hey Clint,” Cap says. His hands are like vices, holding Clint down. “[...]let go now?”

“You’re not dead, are you?” Clint asks, trying to make it sound like a joke.

“He’s not, and neither am I, thanks to you.”

Clint turns his head to stare at Bucky. For a second he thinks he’s really there, solid and alive, but then he notices the slight translucence and he falls back down into the bed.

Bucky looks different, more solid than before and wearing different clothes, _normal_ clothes. He’s got the long hair, tied back away from his face, and the metal arm is tucked into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie almost self consciously, but he’s definitely still a ghost.

“Mr Barton,” an unfamiliar voice says, although Clint feels like he’s heard it before, like maybe he dreamt it. The man in the doorway has dark hair, with more salt than pepper at the temples and a well-kept beard not too different from Tony’s. He is dressed like an extra from an Asylum fantasy rip-off movie, with a long red cape and some huge overly dramatic pendant round his neck. “Yo[...]wake. Good. You wouldn’t [...] I not arriv[...] time.”

“Reminds me of the doctors Stevie used to go see,” Bucky mutters. “They were all full of ‘emselves too.”

“Luck[...]you, I have exper[...] dealing with the [...]metaphys[...]orld, and [...]ble to shield [...]estless spirits [...]tempti[...]devour[...]ife force.” Clint can only make out part of it, but he gets the feeling he’s supposed to be saying thank you.

“Stran[...]really think [...] bes[...] to wake[...]?” Cap asks.

“He did save you, though,” Bucky says, and Clint ignores the other two to listen to him instead. At least he can still hear everything Bucky’s saying. “Said you’d created some sort of link between us. I was pulling your soul out of you.”

“You were fading,” Clint says. He’s aware of both the arrogant doctor guy and Cap both asking him questions but he’s deaf. It’s not his fault if he doesn’t hear them. “And your body was right there…”

“And you almost killed yourself,” Bucky responds. He reaches out and Clint can almost feel Bucky’s fingers against his forehead. “You shouldn’t have done that for me, doll.”

“You did it first,” Clint points out, and Bucky gives him an unimpressed look. The sound of startled laughter pulls Clint’s attention away to where Cap is watching him with a silly smile on his face.

The doc starts talking again, but right now Clint doesn’t really care what he’s got to say. He’s alive, Bucky’s alive, Cap’s alive; that’s good enough for the moment. He yawns and closes his eyes.

*

Clint’s never felt quite this weak before, as he pulls himself into the wheelchair next to his bed. Black Widow is watching him, although she’s been pretty clear that he’s supposed to call her Natasha now, and Barney’s down the hallway yelling at Stark. The cynical part of Clint suggests that his brother’s trying to get some sort of financial compensation for Clint’s injuries. The less cynical part says that maybe finding that ghosts have almost killed your brother after an assassin has _already_ almost killed your brother is a bit frightening and Clint should be grateful that Barney’s yelling at someone else.

Natasha gives a significant look to the bedside table, where his shiny new hearing aids are. He sighs and reaches for them. Apparently Tony prefers gift giving to heartfelt conversations and Clint is more than okay with that. They are an obnoxious purple colour, which Clint loves but which Bucky had made a face at, and they work about five times better than any hearing aids he’s ever had before. Knowing billionaires is useful, it turns out.

VESP-A is excitedly rolling in and out of the door, clearly eager to get moving now that Clint’s got his own set of wheels to play with.

Natasha waits until the hearing aids are in his ears before speaking.

“You made a friend,” she says, with an amused glance at VESP-A.

“V’s awesome,” Clint tells her, grinning and he can hear VESP-A’s happy beeping so much clearer than before. “She’s got a flamethrower.”

“So you mentioned,” Natasha says. “Did you have to use your own shirt, or couldn’t you bear the idea of being found unconscious without your abs on display?”

“If you’ve got ‘em,” Clint says with a wink. He’s trying not to think about where they’re going, or why Bucky’s not here, and Natasha’s clearly picked up on that. He draws in a deep breath and starts wheeling himself towards the door.

Barney and Stark come over to them as soon as they emerge. For reasons of security and civilian protection and whatnot, Barney’s not allowed where they’re going and he’s none too happy about that.

“You sure about staying here?” he signs as he comes over, and Clint nods.

“It’s my own stupid mess, Barney, and you know what you say about those.” Barney makes a sour face, although it’s him who’s been telling Clint to clean up his own messes since before either of them was in double figures. “I’m good.” He signs it as well as says it, just to reinforce the point. “I’ve gotta do this.”

“Don’t know when you went and decided to become a hero,” Barney grumbles. “Thought I taught you to keep your head down.”

“Sometimes you’ve got to take a risk,” Clint says with a helpless shrug. Barney opens his mouth to say something else but before he can speak, Tony butts in.

“As touching as this brotherly bonding session is, we’ve got places to go, people to see, pseudoscience to disprove, magicians to defrock.”

“I think it’s called being struck off when you’re a doctor,” Natasha says.

“He does wear a robe, though,” Clint says. Tony grins at him.

“I knew I liked you, Barton Numero Uno.”

“Hey,” Barney protests, but Tony just waves at him.

“Barney,” Clint says firmly. “It’s okay.”

“If you die again, I’m getting their wizard to bring you back so I can strangle you,” Barney says.

“Like you could,” Clint tells him.

In a move that surprises him, Barney actually reaches down to hug him, his arm pressing painfully against the bruises on the back of Clint’s neck as he clutches him a little too tight. He pulls back just as quickly, hooking a hand round Clint’s neck and looking him right in the eye.

“Don’t die, little brother,” he says.

“Fuck off,” Clint replies. Barney just shoots him the finger and walks away, not looking back once. But then, Clint hadn’t expected him to.

They make their way in strange procession down the corridor and into the elevator.

“Floor 62, J,” Tony says.

“Certainly, Sir,” JARVIS says, projecting the words onto the wall as he does so. Clint grins up at the ceiling. “Good afternoon, Mr Barton. It is good to see you are mobile again.”

“Good to hear you up and about again, too,” Clint says, fidgeting a little with the arms of his wheelchair.

“I’m glad to be back,” JARVIS says. “The entire situation was unsettling, but you appear to have handled yourself well, although if I may suggest trying a little harder not to die next time.”

“You and everyone else,” Clint tells him with a roll of his eyes. His breathing speeds up as the elevator descends and he forces it to slow. By his feet, VESP-A beeps imperiously.

“You also acquitted yourself admirably,” JARVIS says and VESP-A trills happily, spinning her camera round.

“You know you’re going to have to go back in the vent, though,” Tony says. “That is what I made you for: Vent Examination and Security Patrol…” 

VESP-A beeps sadly as the elevator comes to a stop and Tony sighs. Clint shares an amused glance with Natasha.

No one wants to go into much detail about what happened on the Avengers side of things that day. Natasha’s got some pretty impressive bruising under her make-up and Clint knows the Hulk made an appearance. Whatever happened, they all got out okay, though there’s an undercurrent of something that no one’s talking about. Clint thinks maybe he stumbled across something so classified that even the spies don’t know about it.

All that really matters to Clint is that no one died and they have Bucky’s body.

They roll into a room with a huge glass chamber in it and inside Clint can see Bucky… two Bucky’s. One is sitting on the floor, staring straight ahead with his mouth firmly shut, the other is standing over him, arms crossed, looking down with an unreadable expression on his face. Only the one standing turns to look at them as they enter, and in the blink of an eye there’s only one Bucky in the cage and the other’s standing right in front of Clint.

“You’re looking a bit better,” Bucky says. “I mean, you still look like crap, but you don’t look like you died anymore.”

“Thanks,” Clint says. He’s very aware of all the Avengers around him, who can only hear one side of this conversation. He and Bucky have hardly had a chance to talk properly since he woke up. “You… uh… you ready for this?”

From the other side of the room, Captain America and the doc - whose name is apparently actually ‘Strange’ - are walking over to them.

“I don’t…” Bucky says. “I want to be real again.”

“You are real,” Clint tells him.

“I want to be seen,” Bucky says. “I want to be able to touch things again. To be able to eat things again. There’s food in this time like I’ve never seen before. You know how many flavours of doughnut I’ve seen?” He sighs. “But… “ Bucky looks back into the cage, at where his body stares into the middle distance. “I don’t know if I want to be him.”

“You’ll still be you,” Clint says. “Pretty sure that’s how it works.”

“But he’s been… He talks,” Bucky says. “He feels things… I can feel them too, sometimes. He’s angry and scared, and when I was in him before…” He pauses, looking down at his hands. “He wanted to kill you. Because that’s what he was for. That was his purpose, so he wanted to complete it.”

“You said he’s scared,” Clint says. He’s aware of the people around him listening. “He’s just a person, Bucky. Maybe not a whole person. He’s a part of you.”

“Maybe I don’t want that part back.”

“Think this is an all or nothing kind of thing,” Clint says. “And if he’s you… Well, he can’t be too bad.”

“Of course not,” Cap says. “It’s going to be fine, Buck.”

“That’s what you always say,” Bucky says with a roll of his eyes. “Then we’d end up in a fist fight every damn time.”

“Are we ready?” Doctor Strange asks. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have all day.”

“Gotta say, he hasn’t really grown on me,” Bucky says, casting a glare at the doctor.

“You don’t have to do this today,” Clint says, and he hears more than one sigh behind him. He reaches up to scratch at his hair and pulls his hand back with a wince as it rubs over a bruise. “It’s weird. You can go on being ghost you as long as you want.”

“I don’t want,” Bucky says. His eyes dart around to the people around them and he reaches out to cup Clint’s face. “I very much don’t want,” he says.

“Then I guess you’ve got to do this,” Clint says with a shrug.

“Guess I have.” Bucky straightens up and sets his shoulders, turning round to walk back into the cage like a soldier to the firing squad. Clint turns to Doctor Strange.

“He’s ready,” he says. 

Strange walks over towards the cage as well and starts making weird hand gestures in midair, the sorts of things that Clint would never add into his own act because they’d just be too over the top to be believable. Cap crouches down beside him.

“He’s really okay?” he asks, his brow furrowed in worry.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “He’s scared, but he wants to be back.”

“Okay,” Cap says. “Okay.” He’s staring at the man in the cage, the only one he can see, and Clint’s heart breaks a little at how lost he looks. He has to remember that he’s not the only one with a connection to Bucky here. VESP-A beeps solemnly and Clint drops one hand down to brush the top of her chassis.

Strange slumps forwards, his body unconscious, and Clint gasps as he sees the man _step out_ of himself and walk forwards, right through the glass and into the cage. He says something to Bucky, who nods, not taking his eyes off his other self. Strange then proceeds to make more odd hand motions, except this time lights spring up in the air which form patterns and shapes that shift like kaleidoscopes. He lays one hand on the shoulder of Bucky’s ghost and then there is a moment where Clint can feel energy gathering, pulling inside of him as Strange gestures again. Then, with one decisive movement, Strange throws his other arm out towards Bucky’s body and the light glows brilliant white. Clint looks into the cage, blinking away the afterimages, to find only two figures: Strange, standing over the hunched form of Bucky Barnes, who is shaking like a leaf as he lifts his head to look up at the wizard.

“Did it work?” Steve asks. “Did it work? Bucky?” He stands up and walks towards the cage but Natasha swings an arm out to hold him back, watching carefully. Strange’s spirit form turns and walks out of the cage, stepping back into his own body as though it’s just that easy. Then Strange sits up.

“The transfer was successful,” he says. “But it may take some time for the two parts to fully resolve themselves again.”

“And what does that mean?” Tony asks. “Because it sounds an awful lot like vague pseudoscientific mumbo jumbo.”

“It means his memory and his personality may be volatile for sometime,” Strange says. “I have never dealt with an astral form that has been so long separated from its physical body without being destroyed. It is a unique circumstance, and the trauma that was suffered will not make reintegration any easier.”

“Right,” Tony says.

“I’m afraid any other answers I could give you would require knowledge of the magical arts beyond your understanding.”

“Great, thanks,” Tony says, but Clint doesn’t care about that argument. He rolls himself forwards, following Cap who is already entering the code into the keypanel of the cage. The door swings open.

“Be careful,” Natasha says behind them. “We don’t know if he’ll see you as friend or enemy.”

“Bucky?” Steve says. The man at the other end of the cage stands up, unsteady on his feet, and looks at him with utter confusion.

“I… I remember you…” he says. “I know you…” He glances down at where Clint’s sitting. “I know… both of you?”

“Yeah, Buck.” Cap says and Clint grins.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Clint says, and Bucky answers him with a familiar grin that makes his stomach swoop and his heart miss a beat.

“Damn, doll. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”


End file.
